


if i told you flowers bloomed in the dark would you trust it

by rayguntomyhead



Series: mad city [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Pre-War, eventual Ratchet/Drift but more like pre-Ratchet/Drift, same for the MegOp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:29:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21642229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayguntomyhead/pseuds/rayguntomyhead
Summary: The kid’s still there. Every time Ratchet glances casually out the grimy little clinic window, he’s skulking just under the gloomy drape of shadows. Regular as a fresh-tuned chronometer, the way he slinks up to the corner like he just so happens to find himself on this particular strip of Dead End, optics bleached and shining just a little too bright.Definitely back on boosters that one, and it doesn’t make any part of Ratchet’s spark twist dully in his chest, it doesn’t.Or, the one where Drift didn't disappear after Ratchet saved his spark.
Relationships: Drift & Ratchet, Drift | Deadlock & Gasket, Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet, Megatron/Orion Pax, Orion Pax & Ratchet
Series: mad city [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871551
Comments: 326
Kudos: 443
Collections: Tfp





	1. Chapter 1

The kid’s still there. Every time Ratchet glances casually out the grimy little clinic window, he’s skulking just under the gloomy drape of shadows. Regular as a fresh-tuned chronometer, the way he slinks up to the corner like he just so happens to find himself on this particular strip of Dead End, optics bleached and shining just a little too bright.

Definitely back on boosters that one, and it doesn’t make any part of Ratchet’s spark twist dully in his chest, it doesn’t.

A tic later, and the kid’s gone. Never lingers, never comes knocking, never stays. Ratchet braces his shoulder and digs the scrub brush harder into the gloppy, stinking mess gunking up his waiting room. Hand to Primus, nothing stunk quite like curdled engeron, especially when it had been churned around in a tank for a few hours with who knows what other poisonous street-cooked additives. If this was back at his apartment in Iacon Ratchet would open a window, but the only thing worse than the stink inside is the stink outside.

Some awkwardly stretched belt drive in Ratchet’s back twinges protestingly and he straightens up, arching to let everything settle back into place and yep. The kid’s still out there. Still carefully not looking at the clinic and slaggit, that’s it. Ratchet pops the latch on the window and sticks his head out.

“If you’re gonna loiter around here all night,” he says, “you might as well come in out of the cold.”

The kid starts, dingy plating bristling out in a pathetic attempt at a threat display. The edges are dirty, brittle, color nanites faded off in patches where his frame couldn’t cobble the energy to regenerate them.

“I mean it,” Ratchet says, jerking his head towards the door as he yanks the rusted hinge of the window closed in reluctant jerks. “There’s energon in it for you, if you help me deal with the mess in here.”

He slides the bolt shut again, and turns back to give the chair a few more vindictive squirts of cleaner. Maybe the kid will come in; maybe he won’t. It’s not Ratchet’s problem if he wants to lurk out there high on crank, easy pickings for the next jumped-up slag-shooter that stalks along.

Just behind him, the door squeaks open. It’s just enough to let a watery yellow ribbon of light filter across the floor, and pale gold optic peers past the frame of the door.

Ahah.

“Don’t stand there lollygagging and letting in the cold,” Ratchet doesn’t turn his head, meanders down the row of rickety chairs liberally with cleanser. “C’mon in.”

Drift doesn’t make a squeak as he sidles in, scanning the clinic with a gaze that’s far too sharp for the amount of slag he’s got to be on right now. Maybe he’s not _quite_ as high as he looks. When Ratchet doesn’t rush over to him, he sidles a little further in, then a little more, until the door can ease shut behind him.

“Had a mech in here earlier, downed the wrong combo of energon fillers all at once and they all came back up in my waiting room,”  
Ratchet says casually, conversationally, careful not to move too suddenly as he scoots between chairs. “Figure if I drown it in enough neutralizers it’ll stop stinking before I have to open back up tomorrow.”

Drift edges closer.

“I got a couple cubes of energon in the back for when this’s done, after I close up shop,” Ratchet says. “Could be persuaded to share, if you help me out with this mess.”

Drift’s optics don’t cycle, staying blank, wide and washed out but the way the rest of his face plates crinkle makes Ratchet think they want to. A moment later, he tilts he head.

“Why?”

His voice ekes out hoarse, rough, like someone’s raked gear teeth down it. Could be viral, but more likely it’s whatever grit he drinks down with the kind of energon mechs down here can scrape up.

“Because I could use the help,” Ratchet says, and it’s only the stray line of diplomatic code that still clings in his processes that stops him from adding _and it looks like you could too._

Drift picks up a rag Ratchet left draped over the back of a chair, and doesn’t ask any more questions.

Finally, the waiting area looks as good as it’s going to get. Ratchet throws the scuddy bunch of rags and scrub brushes in a haphazard heap inside the bucket. He stares down a minute, but ugh. Scouring all that can be a problem for after energon. Plus the kid looks like he’s about to pass out. Who knows the last time he’s had energon. Might even be the half a liter he got through a needle in his lines when he shake, rattle and rolling on Ratchet’s table, spark half a flicker from fleeing to Primus’ hand.

“You ready to eat, kid?” Ratchet says and meanders toward the back, deliberately not staring at Drift. Thank Orion for convincing him to install a little dispenser here of his own, just for nights like these, not because he lived at his job _thank you very much._ It’s just more convenient than stuffing his subspace with snacks. Amicas and their nagging you ‘for your own good’, what can you do.

Drift’s footsteps are barely audible against the floor, but Ratchet teaks the ragged whispery edges of his field straggling along just behind him. There’s an itch at the back of his processor, some file of atrophied protocol that urges him to apologize for the lack of proper set up or additives, offer to warm the energon up but Ratchet shakes it off. It’s not like the kid’ll care about it being anything more than free, decent quality food.

He rakes a cursory glance over the cubes stacked in a lopsided tower beside the tap, plucks the top two off and blows the edge of dust off of the rim. He sticks one under the dispenser, which makes a cranky _whirr_ before slowly starting a trickle of energon. Just before it hits full, Ratchet deftly swaps it out for the other, and sticks the full cube out towards Drift’s general direction.

“Well?” he says. “All yours.”

Almost before he finishes speaking the cube is plucked from his hand, followed by the desperate sound of gulping – like he’s afraid Ratchet’s going to change his mind and swipe it back if he doesn’t down is quick enough. Ratchet half turns, still careful not to make Drift feel like he’s staring him down but _Primus_ , the kid looks so young.

And yeah, Ratchet calls him kid, but now watching the way the lines hardening his face smooth out with bliss, optics finally dimmed, he really does look it. The damn twist is back in his spark, and Ratchet rubs at his chest.

Better take a sip of his own energon, he’s down below 50 percent again. He’s only a quarter into his cube when Drift lowers his, tongue flicking out for a last idle swirl around the rim.

“There’s more where that came from,” Ratchet says gruffly, slouches deliberate and unconcerned against the wall by the dispenser. “If you want.”

Clearly not casually enough though, because Drift’s face hardens and his shoulders pull in.

“If I want,” he repeats. “An’ what do _you_ want then?”

Frag. Ratchet tips another mouthful of energon down his intake and doesn’t let himself think about what Drift’s really asking.

“Told you it was yours if you helped clean up,” he says, tries to let the truth of it flare out in his field. “Meant it.”

Drift stares at him, shoulders staying hutched and plating slicked down flat. Ratchet doesn’t move, just keeps sipping at his energon and keeping his field steady and open.

“Fact of the matter is, now I think about it, I could do with someone to help shoulder the load around here,” he says. “The last aid I had quit after a week of dealing with slag work.”

Not so much quit, as flounced back to Iacon in a snit after one too many messes and junkie bots that he felt was ‘beneath him.’ As if a fancy piece of paper made you any better, meant you could foist off the drone work onto those with slightly less fancy pieces of paper or avoid those types all together. Should’ve had his medic’s cross stripped off his pauldrons , if anyone asked Ratchet.

And actually now he thinks of it, now the thought’s skipped straight past his processor and out his vocalizer… an assistant might not be such a bad idea. Someone to help with all the little tasks that kept a clinic chugging along, someone to handle the front when the clinic got crowded. Ratchet hasn’t been here long enough for most of Dead End’s mecha to overcome their intrinsic distrust of topside bots enough to flood his clinic, but all it’d take would be the right one coming in and he’d have more than he could handle.

Plus Drift’s quiet, not a complainer. And if it has the side benefit of giving the kid a reason to stay off boosters…

There's a little voice that sounds suspiciously like his med school advisor whining something about _how you can't save them all_ but frag that. The kid will either take the offer or he won't.

“A job?” Drift’s stiffened, optics cycling through a reset back to the same bleached out gold, face collapsing open to something young, uncertain.

“A job.” Ratchet says firmly, and makes a _gimme_ motion towards Drift’s empty cube. “You help keep things clean, organized, corral the riff raff and there’s shanix in it for you along with energon whenever you’re working.”

Drift opens his mouth, closes it, bites at his lip.

“Unless you’ve got another job lined up…” Ratchet says.

“No!” Drift says in a blurt of static, and again softer, “no. I’ll do it.”

“You can start tomorrow,” Ratchet dumps his cube in the sink, hesitates, and sticks Drift’s back under the dispenser. “I’ll be here at zero eight joors to get the clinic ready, get here around then and I’ll show you the nuts and bolts."

He offers the full cube to Drift, who’s still staring back at him face crumpled and confused.

“Drink up, kid,” Ratchet says. “You’ll need the energy tomorrow.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Slag-sucking scrap heap reject,” Ratchet jabs at the shattered button on the code pad set into the clinic front door, and ignores the ache in his right shoulder tensor cables from the weight of the overfull pack slung over it. Pits take it all, it’s too early for this. He leans sideways in counterbalance as the bags slip threateningly down the slope of his pauldrons, steadying his slightly steaming cup of energon in one hand as he continues to jab the code pad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so, so much for the kudos and comments on the first chapter. It's been the horrible week from hell and I can't tell you how much they lifted my spirits <3

“Slag-sucking scrap heap reject,” Ratchet jabs at the shattered button on the code pad set into the clinic front door, and ignores the ache in his right shoulder tensor cables from the weight of the overfull pack slung over it. Pits take it all, it’s too early for this. He leans sideways in counterbalance as the bags slip threateningly down the slope of his pauldrons, steadying his slightly steaming cup of energon in one hand as he continues to jab the code pad.

The clinic security system is solid as a rock, but unfortunately about as ancient too. And unluckily for him, something or someone had managed to puncture one of the input keys last night which’s turned the system from apathetically responsive to stubbornly non-compliant.

With a final grinding press into the key the door lock snicks open and Ratchet lurches forward, finally losing the battle to keep the sack on his shoulder and his energon from spilling onto his servos. He hisses, sucks the slightly spicy drops smeared off the edge of a digit before it drips everywhere.

“I can help,” a rough voice says barely a breath behind Ratchet’s back, _gah._ His alert systems spin up on high but a beat later and his processor identifies that particular voice as definitely Drift’s. 

Primus _._ Way to warn a body. He forces his systems to cycle back down and grumbles, “Quiet as a damn sparkeater, kid. You wanna grab the top bag? With the black straps?”

With that weight gone, Ratchet shoulders himself the rest of the way through the door and let his load slump finally off his shoulder and onto the floor. He throws back a good half of his energon in one mouthful, the spice in it sliding warm and sweet in his tank. A long exvent, and he turns back to Drift.

What do you know. The kid showed up.

“You eaten yet?” Ratchet says, but he knows the answer before the question come out his vocalizer. “Nevermind, help me take this all to the back and I’ll grab you a cube.”

He sets his mug on the front desk and heaves half the bags back onto his shoulder as he makes his way towards the storage cupboards. Every deca-cycle or so he has to haul down a stash of expired goods donated or… strategically repurposed from the disposal room of the topside clinics, and even with his generous medic mods there’s more that he can cram in his sub-space. Orion, the dear, helps out when he can but there’s only so much free time given to a junior archivist when that junior archivist is apprenticed to someone like Alpha Trion.

This time around the haul had been particularly good. Several dozen med-grade energon infusion bags, the standard type and the ones with extra additives. A whole box of patching gauze, and another of rust protection spray. Virus symptom suppressor drives even - and while technically Ratchet could program those, that required both the spare drives and more importantly the spare time.

Underneath all that, at the bottom of his subspace are tucked supplies from his little apartment; cleanser and scrub brushes, a hardy polish and soft cloths. After all, if Drift is going to be working at the front he needs to get at least some of that grime off of him. Besides, Ratchet might be needing him in the back eventually to help with an unruly patient. Maybe even assist with procedures, start training him up…

But he’s getting ahead of himself.

“Set that one besides those storage closets against the back,” Ratchet says as he starts unloading the first of the bags. “’S mostly fluids, those all go on the bottom shelves, but make sure to separate them by color.”

They unpack and organize the supplies in silence, interspersed only with the occasional direction from Ratchet, or quiet question from Drift. Small talk has never been Ratchet’s forte, and thankfully Drift isn’t the yaking type and by the time the last of the supplies are neatly tucked away it’s nearly time to open.

Hrmph. There goes Ratchet’s plan to get the kid cleaned up first. Guess Drift will just have to suffer through another day of grimy plating until Ratchet can give him a hand with a scrub and polish tonight.

“C’mon kid, lemme show you the set up,” Ratchet flaps a hand towards the front, levers himself up off the ground. Drift follows behind, his silent shadow, past the plastic curtain dividing the front and his patient care area. He’s done the best he can with a space definitely not designed to be a clinic, and maybe, eventually, he’ll find a way to come up with enough shanix to fund an actual remodel.

“See these?” Ratchet grabs a handful of the flimsy black datapads he uses to do intakes. “This is what they fill out if their processor’s tracking enough to make sense of it. Those-” he points at the stack of red flimsies on the desk, “are what we use when they’re carried in, or too jacked up on… whatever. Right now, you’re gonna be dealing with the walk-ins.”

Not so long ago Drift had a pad of his very own, written up joors after the kid had staggered out of the clinic. Usually went that way, the close calls in his one mech clinic, and Pits take him if Drift hadn’t been one of them. Didn’t matter how high your tolerance was, that many damn boosters stuck in your helm was a fast trip to Primus’ arms if you believed in that sort of spiritualistic nonsense. Seeing those dark optics finally flickering a dim hazy gold, tracking Ratchet’s finger with his forehead scrunched in dazed confusion, staring up like the light of the Matrix was haloing Ratchet’s helm… Making Ratchet blurt out lines about how the kid was _special._

It was something about those slaggin’ optics of his, is what is was.

Still is, really.

“I hand them out, when they walk in the door?” Drift picks up a flimsy and pokes at the screen, flicking his digit as he scrolls through the truncated version of a screener that Ratchet had cobbled together.

“Exactly that,” Ratchet says, and leaves Drift to his perusal to straighten the chairs into some semblance of order now that they are clean and dry.

“I don’t usually get a crowd, so you shouldn’t need to do much with keeping them in order, but make sure they fill the whole thing out and then put the flimsies in that… thing. The station bin thing over there,” Ratchet flaps a hand in the general direction of the kiosk just behind the desk. “That way I know who to pull back next. And tell ‘em welcome in first, blah, blah, that sort of slag.”

Even just having someone to do that would be worth the extra shanix. Not having to worry about what shenanigans were going on up front, or deal with random mecha wandering back while he was working someone up. Maybe once Drift had settled in with that he could even pull one of the vital signs readers up front and have Drift get that for him during intake too.

Drift stares down at the flimsie like he’s trying to force the contents straight to his long term memory drive, worrying at his lip.

Ratchet waits a long pause, but Drift doesn’t stop burning a hole in the data pad with his optics so he clears his vocalizer and says briskly, “Questions?”

Drift straightens his shoulders, and ruffles his plating.

“Say welcome, give them the pad, and put the pad in your box,” he says, plating flaring out just the slightest bit further before it settles.

Ratchet gives him a sharp nod, and then the front a last critical scan. Yep. It’ll do. Every dull, grey, pocked wall and scuffed metal floor scrubbed as clean as he can keep them – and if some of his exam drawers aren’t as well prepped as they could be, well. That’d give the two of them a project for their down time.

“Alright, kid,” he says. “Time to open her up.”

Ratchet tries not to hover. No point in paying out of his skimpy budget for an assistant if he won’t at least give him a chance to do his job. And the kid’s jittery with the first few mecha to straggle in, no struts about it. But by the fourth one he seems to get a sense of the flow and slips into a rhythm about as smooth as fresh greased gears, sitting the mecha that come in order, double checking the flimsies before he puts them in Ratchet’s inbox.

Sharp as scalpel, that kid, adapting like he’s worked the front for deca-cycles. Although it’s a little amusing how everyone who shuffles through the door, to a mech, pauses and gives Drift a double take before bemusedly following his lead.

Like it’s been since the day Ratchet opened, patients trickle in – mostly minor body work, jagged lacerations and peeled up plating where paranoia over a rampant rust infection overrides wariness of a relatively new topsider.

By the time the last of them is sent on their way, his chronometer’s ticked over to the afternoon. Might be time to call it, get them both some energon and the kid his overdue bath.

Ratchet pokes his head out from between the plastic dividers to Drift still standing attentively at the desk. He’s swaying on his feet though now, just the smallest bit, the light of his optics dimming and brightening in unsteady rhythm and frag. Ratchet should’ve noticed that coming on. Boosters definitely wasn’t all the kid was dosed on.

He opens his mouth to say… something, except somehow the gods of saving Ratchet from uncomfortable conversations are smiling down on him right now and the front door judders open hard enough to send it thudding into the wall. A hand reaches in, followed by the rest of a mech in slow motion. His vocalizer blurs out a jumbled greeting, volume wavering up and down like someone fiddling a dial as Drift stops swaying and stiffens.

“Gasket! Slaggin- _Gasket,”_ he says, blurting it out louder than anything else he’s said all day. The mech slumps, still braced against the door and says, “Know w’s supposed to wait- wait… wait til you came out…”

Before he can finish Drift is around the desk and slipping his arms around the scuffed up grey and red torso. Ratchet drops the cubes he’d grabbed on the desk as he strides towards them and damn. The mech - Gasket must be his designation - is missing most of one lower arm. Except, no, that’s an old injury from the look of the rounded off edges, but the mech’s shaking like a wind chime in a summer storm. All his vents are blown open, expelling air in wheezy puffs while the rest of his frame vibrates, trying to warm components dropping below their normal stasis temp.

“Don’t feel ‘s good, Drift,” Gasket says, vocalizer gritting words out rougher than Drift’s, before his intakes spasms in a dry heave. “Didn’t wanna bother you, y’know.”

“Oh shut it,” Drift says, and hauls the mech a little closer. “If you were feeling worse this morning and didn’t tell me like a _fraggin’ gearshift_ – I _told_ you I’d ask the doctor-“

“You gotta whole job,” Gasket says, staring up at him. “Didn’t wanna-na messh…”

Well. Was gonna ask the doctor, huh. Seems like Drift might’ve had a different reason to be lurking outside his clinic, more than he just wanted to see Ratchet again. Which makes more sense really, and is not disappointing in the slightest.

Ratchet pauses a beat as he comes closer, moves slowly enough they can see him coming and scoops an arm under Gasket’s other arm to wrap around his back. There isn’t any circuit boosters sticking out of any place obvious, but that doesn’t mean slag. Could’ve popped them out just before he came in, and could just as likely be something he ingested. More probable than either of those though, with those locked open vents and the attempt at energon purging… shanix to stones it’s a virus.

The mech droops into Ratchet’s support, mouth working slowly before eking out a whispery “Caaaaan’t,” everything about him moving as slow as a slog through fresh poured concrete and yep. _Definitely_ a virus.

“Gasket! Fraggit, come on Gasket,” Drift says, hefting Gasket the rest of the way upright, enough that Ratchet can twist sideways and scoop him up and into his arms with the easy strength his medic mods grant him. Faster this way than him and Drift trying to half-walk half-drag him to the back.

The mech in his arms is half a helm at least smaller than Drift, just barely larger than a minibot and frighteningly light. He’s clearly older than Drift, or at least been through the wars longer than the kid, what with the wear on his visible joints, that particular struggling patchwork of color nanites, the way chips and jagged notches line every edge of his armor plates.

Gasket's head lolls on Ratchet’s shoulder, mouth working in slow motion like he’s trying to say something still but whatever’s coursing through his systems is causing enough slow down and system freeze he isn’t likely to get it out anytime soon. Drift skitters along behind as Ratchet ducks through the divider, his field lapping out in distressed waves.

“He’s gonna be fine, kid,” Ratchet says. “We’ll get some energon in his system and I'll run an antiviral and he’ll be back to normal by evening.”

He lays Gasket on the medslab, reaches underneath to grab the set of spark monitor adhesive electrodes and peels off the backing. Pressing them in precise lines down Gasket’s chassis he says, “Drift, grab a blanket or two from the warmer. There, in the left corner.”

Drift doesn’t hesitate, moves slick as the speedster he is to the warmer and grabs three of the shimmering metallic blankets out, starts tucking them around his friend before Ratchet evens needs tell him. Once the electrodes are on Ratchet works around Drift’s hands still patting the blanket, grabs the handful of monitor wire and snaps them onto the stickies. Above them the oscillating line flashes to life on the monitor screen.

“Good, that’s great kid,” Ratchet says. The interline fluid kit perches just under the berth and Ratchet pulls it out, spreading half the supplies nestled inside on the berth and half on the tray to his left. The bag of medgrade energon gets prepped on autopilot; opened, hung, line connected and cleared, hands moving fluid in a dance Ratchet performed a hundred times.

He looks up, ready to start the drip in Gasket’s arm and yup - Drift’s still fussing with the edge of the blanket, gaze bouncing like a pinball between his friend’s glazed over optics and Ratchet’s hands.

“Right now the virus is attacking his processor, making it think there’s something it needs to get rid of,” Ratchet says. The lines in Gasket’s arms are so depleted they’re nearly flat, hiding in the crook of his arm plating. “’S why it’s keeping his vents open, to blow out any airborne contaminants, and why it’s trying to make him purge his tanks to boot.”

Gasket’s not the hardest stick Ratchet’s had though, if only because he’s got so little plating for the lines to hide in to begin with. Ratchet doesn’t know how Gasket’s made it this long without bartering for tougher armor, _some_ sort of protections from the harsh, indifferent junkland that is Dead End.

He needs to get some fluids in the mech fast though, before whatever dregs sitting in Gasket’s tank come up his intake. Before you know it it’d drop the pressure down of whatever was still sludging around Gasket’s lines, and then drop his processor into protective shutdown.

Drift stops his fidgeting at the bedside and moves to hover over Ratchet instead, and nope that is _not_ helpful. Ratchet flares out a ‘ _back up’_ with his field until the quiet unhappy pulsing of Drift’s retreats, pulls in a steadying invent and slips the needle into Gasket’s line. Thankfully it slides into place without issue, and Ratchet reaches up to open the flow of energon.

“Can you fix him?” Drift says, and he’s just at the far edge of Ratchet’s field but stubbornly not stepping a centimeter further. “Is it… do we have to wait until he clears it on his own? ‘Cause his firewalls aren’t so good anymore…”

“This isn’t the Dark Ages,” Ratchet snaps, except _slag_. This isn’t fragging Iacon. These aren’t patients who’ve never gone a cycle without a doctor’s care in their life. Most mecha here probably do just have to try and ride it out, hoping their systems will purge it eventually.

“I’ll give him a symptom suppressor to get his vents back to normal and stop the purging,” Ratchet says, and stomps the guilt down deep. “Then I can hardline in through his medical port and clear the virus. Like I said, kid, I’ll have him up and good by tonight.”

He secures the line to Gasket’s arm, then tapes it down in a few more places for good measure in case Gasket come back online thrashing. When he glances back, Drift’s plating is still slicked down defensively, but the tension in his frame seems to be unwinding, a klik at a time.

“That’s…” he says, looks down at Gasket and then back up at Ratchet. “Okay. Okay.”

Ratchet tilts his head, gives Drift a sharp nod and then gestures with one hand toward the storage cupboards.

“Here, can you grab me one of the drives in the back?” he says. “One of the ones from what we put away this morning. On the middle shelf towards the front, look for the drives with the blue stripes.”

Drift’s servos flex, then curl into fists, before he nods and pads silently towards the back. The wave form on Gasket’s monitor slowly evens up into a healthier spark rhythm now his frame isn’t overclocking itself trying to keep warm. Now they just have to get the suppressor in him, and Ratchet can start the painstaking process of clearing out the virus.

He gently thumbs open a battered access port on Gasket’s wrist, winces at the amount of grime in the corners. At least he hadn’t forgotten to replenish the stock of disinfectant wipes.

What a Primus-damned slag-sucking end to a first day for the kid. Ratchet’s big mouth hadn’t helped he’s sure, but at least Drift hadn’t freaked, had been able to take direction when Ratchet needed his third hand. If it was the kid’s druthers, it was looking like a better and better idea for Ratchet to train him up with the basics. Especially if they had cases like Gasket’s, and the ones much worse. Just having someone to hook a mech up to the monitors, help with the primary assessment, even just someone who knew the names of all the supplies for when Ratchet couldn’t leave the berthside to grab them himself.

Maybe Drift had already has another line of work brewing , and maybe more probably he hadn’t. It’s difficult earning the certs that would make him able to work up the ranks of medics, but the kid’s already shown he’s smart. And Ratchet may have burned a few bridges, but there’s still mecha he can call on, some strings he can pull to give the kid a step towards something more stable. If he’s willing to put in the work and stay off the boosters…

Just as silently as he left Drift returns, correct symptom suppressor drive in hand. A klik later and it’s firmly plugged into Gasket’s now squeaky clean port. Five kliks after that and his vents slowly relax their rattling, and the tension seeps out of his frame – the tension in Drift’s frame draining right along with it.

The flush of satisfaction washes warm over Ratchet’s spark, and he lets it pool there for a long vent, the reaches up to flick Gasket’s main medical access port open. Time to get to it; the virus won’t fight itself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet shoves another cube of energon into Drift’s servos a joor into his silent vigil at Gasket’s berthside. He’d meant to pick up some iron shavings, copper curls, something as a treat for the kid for his first day. Maybe on the way back to his apartment tonight; that little bodega on the corner closed late and while it didn’t have the broadest selection, their Kaonite spices were practically strong enough to make you grow an extra layer of armor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a shorter update, since I'm polishing up a couple gift exchange fics. thank you again to all the lovely people leaving comments and kudos! Also I adore all the medical worldbuilding bits but don't have a lot of tech knowledge to draw upon when it comes to the mechanical part of things - so if anyone wants to talk cybertronian anatomy and medicine and such, I'd love to chat :)

Ratchet shoves another cube of energon into Drift’s servos a joor into his silent vigil at Gasket’s berthside. He’d meant to pick up some iron shavings, copper curls, something as a treat for the kid for his first day. Maybe on the way back to his apartment tonight; that little bodega on the corner closed late and while it didn’t have the broadest selection, their Kaonite spices were practically strong enough to make you grow an extra layer of armor. 

Drift chugs this cube just as quick as he’s chugged every other cube Ratchet’s seen him drink, lowers it down to balance it on his thigh plating. Ratchet starts to move back, hesitates, shifts forward again. 

Ugh. What the kid needs is something to take his mind off all this until his friend wakes up. Sometimes it didn’t matter what Ratchet said, the patient’s loved ones wouldn’t _really_ believe it until they saw the results with their own optics. Well if Drift’s going to be sitting here, might as well give him something to do. 

“How about we get him cleaned up while we’re waiting,” he says, plucks the cube out of Drift’s grip. “Can’t get him into the shower, but I can show you all the stuff to give him a sponge bath. Might make he feel a lot better when he comes up, if he’s not covered in… all that.” 

There’s still splatters of gunk on Gasket’s chassis, from where he’d upchucked the last splatters of sludge swimming in his tank. Ratchet had dabbed off the worst of it earlier, but that on top of all the caked-on dust from who knows how long in Dead End without a bath… ugh. Part of fixing mecha up was fixing more than just processors and plating.

He drops the cube in the sink, bends down to pull out a bucket from the cupboard underneath and sticks it under the tap. The cleaning supplies are still in his subspace from this morning, and he fishes around for them with one hand while gently twisting the temperature knob of the water higher with the other. While Cybertronian systems weren’t exactly built for sustained heat, the chill of Dead End was enough to make your protoform ache. The clinic heater did its best, but after the fourth jury-rigged fix Ratchet had mostly given up on it warming the clinic up past tolerable. 

“He always says the dirt’s just an extra layer of insulation,” Drift says and the stool creaks as he stands, adds softly, “wingnut,” with the sort of fondly wry exasperation that comes with knowing someone as well as he clearly knows Gasket. 

The water hits the bucket’s fill line, and Ratchet switches it off and heaves it up and over onto Drift’s now empty seat by the berth. In go the sponges and the drying clothes he tucks underneath. It’s not the most luxurious set-up, but it’ll do the trick. 

“You start with his helm kid, and I’ll start with his pedes,” Ratchet says. “Once we get his front done, I’ll help hold him on his side while you get his back.” 

They clean in silence. If only he’d thought to turn on the radio first - there had to be something that wasn’t Functionist propaganda on. Maybe that station of oldies the arts archivists put on, that would be lovely. Someday he’d remember to ask Orion for a download of some of their shows for when the comms down here came through more static than sound. 

Ratchet dips his rag in the bucket, wrings the gradually greying water out of it. Turns out underneath all that grime Gasket’s closer to white than he is to grey. There’s even what had probably been pinstripe accents up the seams of Gasket’s legs. He’s clearly not seen maintenance in even longer than Drift. 

Hrmph. Well, after Gasket’s had the night to rest Drift can bring him back by to at minimum get an oil change and a tune-up. 

And with systems still shaky recovering from a virus like that, at least one more full cube of med-grade energon. Just to tide him over until he got his strength back.

“Ratchet?” Drift says, head tilted as he watches Ratchet polishing the same bit of forearm plating in slow circles and oh, right. Must’ve zoned out there a bit.

“Looks good, kid,” Ratchet says, puts his servos on his hips, arches his back struts until that contrary cable straightens out with a pop. “Now before he wakes up we’re gonna get you clean too. In the washracks,” he nods his helm in the direction of the shower in the back. No better time after all. 

Drift pauses, hand frozen just above the bucket, optics spiraling wide like a mech caught in the headlights. His hands squeeze down on his rag as he says, “Um… we… you want me to…” 

“Looks like you haven’t had the chance for a good scrub and polish in a hot klik, kid,” Ratchet interrupts before Drift can trail off any more confused thoughts. He should probably be more diplomatic, but is there really a diplomatic way to tell someone they need a bath? It’s not like Drift doesn’t know it. “C’mon, into the shower, kid. Don’t have to give _you_ a sponge bath.” 

He waves a hand brusquely towards the tiny shower, strides over to the bin of solvents tucked next to it. Might as well plug one of these into the shower head - half the soap he’d brought had been used on Gasket, so might as well use this to chip away at the grime first.

His knee servos give a faint protesting groan as he squats down. Ridiculous. He’s barely two vorns old, at least three more out before he’s due for a joint replacement. 

There. That’s the solvent he wants. By the time he’s plugged it in, and fished the remaining soap and the rest of the scrub brushes out of his subspace Drift has managed to make his way over. 

His field throbs unsettled, when it flares enough away from his plating for Ratchet to teak it. Ratchet tilts his head, looking up at him. He can’t be that opposed to cleaning up, can he? When he doesn’t move Drift’s field steadies, and he sidles past Ratchet and into the shower. He deliberately loosens his plating and plants his feet, stares at Ratchet with the strangest expression.

Ratchet stares back, waiting for Drift to do… something, turn on the water, ask a question, except he doesn’t. Just stands there, giving Ratchet that weird-aft look and _honestly_. 

“The on button’s right there,” Ratchet says, slowly pointing at the giant green on dial. “That’s a good place to start.” 

Drift’s look shifts into confusion. 

“You aren’t going to… join me?” he says, does something weird with his face and is that a comment on Ratchet’s cleanliness? _Rude_. Ratchet glances down reflexively at his plating, and okay so maybe he could use a scrub and maybe might be due for a detailing if a mech was being particular. Except the shower was barely big enough to fit _one_ mech in, let alone two. No, he’s perfectly happy taking care of this later. At some point, when he had the time. Eventually. 

“Yes, because we’ll be able to get so clean crammed in there like two screws in one fitting,” he drawls, raises an orbital ridge. “How about I just let you figure things out, and you let me know if you need help cleaning your posterior plating.” 

Primus knows the kid needs to get those seams clean. If the front of him is bad, the back of him is even worse. 

Drift pauses like he expects Ratchet to add something more but when he doesn’t finally reaches out to hesitantly poke the button, turning the stream of solvent on. It warms to life with a quiet hiss before the gentle patterof water starts to echo off the walls and Ratchet’s presence suddenly becomes null as it spatters over Drift’s plating. His optics shutter, mouth falling a little open with a quiet _oh_. The plating that flared rigidly from his frame relaxes, flutters, and flares wider to let the water flow underneath. The next little moan Drift makes is practically out of some dirty streamer vid and Ratchet hastily drops the scrub brushes by the edge of the shower. 

“You need me, I’ll be over here,” he says, bustling over to the mess of sponge bath supplies. Drift didn’t need his boss staring him down while he washed. Better get this cleaned up now, so when Drift and Gasket were ready to go, everything would be tidied and set for tomorrow and Ratchet could go home too. Get clean in his own washrack, maybe crack open a bottle of engex. Maybe even settle down with a good datapad, catch up on the latest New Cybertronian Journal of Medicine. Long as Gasket woke up fine, of course, but his vitals were stable and his vents unlabored. Shouldn't be long now.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Wow, hello," Gasket stares dazedly up at Ratchet, optics spiraling in and out of focus as he finishes booting through a systems reset. Ratchet grunts an absent minded hello back as watches Gasket’s vitals slowly climb up as his processor comes back online, spark rhythm continuing its steady oscillation.

"Wow, hello," Gasket says, staring dazedly up at Ratchet, his optics spiraling in and out of focus as he finishes booting through a systems reset. Ratchet grunts an absent minded hello back as he watches Gasket’s vitals slowly climb up as his processor comes back online, spark rhythm continuing its steady oscillation. 

Drift hovers patiently on the other side of the berth, heeding Ratchet’s warning to wait until he’d finished the initial assessment to jump his friend. 

“Y’know,” Gasket continues, seemingly unperturbed by the lack of further response on Ratchet’s part, “I thought you’d look a lot more…” he manages to get a hand out from under the warming tarp and waves it with enough uncoordinated enthusiasm to nearly tip himself sideways, “….um. Godly.”

Ratchet freezes, scanner in hand.

“What,” he says. Maybe Gasket’s processor took a little more damage than Ratchet had thought. 

“All glowy and slag,” Gasket says. “White optics. Definitely taller. Has anyone told you you’re kind of short?” 

_What._

“Excuse you,” Ratchet says, because he is perfectly average height no matter what some oversized jets have to say about it, thank you very much. 

“I dunno,” Gasket says, his still unfocused optics eying Ratchet in a rather dubious manner. “Just, whenever I thought about it I pictured you being a lot more, um. Like, planet sized. Or at least cityformer big.”

“…Planet sized,” Ratchet says. 

“I mean, I know some mechs say Primus _is_ the planet, but that did always seem to be going a bit far,” Gasket says. “if you don’t mind me saying so, Primus sir.” 

Primus. The glitching mech has somehow got it into his fool head that Ratchet is _Primus._

On the other side of the berth Drift, who up until this point had been staring at Gasket with the same baffled expression that Ratchet assumed is on his own face plates, suddenly lets out a high pitched wheeze which devolves into… is Drift _giggling_? 

“I’m glad you find this amusing,” Ratchet glares at Drift, who’s practically doubled over now. “So happy to provide entertainment.” 

Gasket lolls his head towards the noise, before his face crinkles in confusion as his gaze bounces slowly between Ratchet and Drift. 

“Wait,” he says. “Wait. I’m not in the Afterspark? You’re not...?” 

“While I’m flattered,” Ratchet says. “ _No._ ” 

“Oh,” Gasket says and cycles his optics a couple times, finally getting them set back to normal. “Huh.” 

Drift finally pulls himself together enough to say, “This is Ratchet, remember when I– the doc that fixed me up that one time?” 

“Ohhh,” Gasket says, brightens up. “The one you couldn’t stop talking about, with the hands and the miracle-working, _that_ doc.” 

Drift’s cheeks turn an interesting shade of dark blue-grey. “Shut _up,_ bitbrain,” he hisses, even as he crowds in closer to Gasket’s side, reaches out to squeeze his shoulder gently. 

Ratchet purses his lips in a scowl to hide the grin trying to take over his face as he goes through his diagnostics, double checking the readouts to make sure Gasket didn’t cycle up with any errors. 

Couldn’t stop talking about him, huh. Guess he made just as much of an impression on Drift as Drift made on him. 

“Oops,” Gasket says, unrepentantly. “I mean, oh that doc that you definitely haven’t mentioned not even once.” 

“Slagger,” Drift grumbles, and lets go of Gasket’s shoulder to ever so gently slug him in it.

“Ep-ep-ep,” Ratchet reaches over Gasket to rap the back of Drift’s hand with a servo. “Hands off until I finish running the diagnostic, you’re going to throw off the results.” 

Drift puts his hand behind his back with an apologetic look, and settles back onto the stool. Good. Ratchet restarts the scanner, and a few kliks later it sounds off a cheery _beep._ Yup – Gasket’s good to go, or at least as good to go as he was before he caught that damn virus. There’s still the beginnings of a rust infection around the edge of his arm stump, his lines haven’t had a good flush in over a vorn and he’s suffering from what are clearly the effects of chronic energon depravation. 

Not that any of that seems to be putting a cap on his continued cheerful needling of Drift. The banter between the two of them doesn’t seem like it’s going to stop any time soon so Ratchet clears his vocalizer. 

“Right,” he says when they both pause and turn to look at him, starts unhooking the various leads and monitoring devices from Gasket’s frame. “I’m expecting you,” he taps Gasket’s arm,“back tomorrow for a follow-up, make sure there isn’t any residual damage, check you over when your systems aren’t still fresh off fighting a virus.” 

Gasket opens his mouth, closes it, turns to Drift.

“You should,” Drift says, quiet. “The way you looked, you went _offline_ –“ his vocalizer chokes up a little.  “Anyway,” he says. “You should come back with me, let Ratchet check you over.” 

There’s something wary, under Gasket’s cheerful mien, but after a staring match with Drift where they’re clearly communicating something in a language only the two of them get Gasket nods. 

“Right, doc,” he says. “Tomorrow.”

There isn’t much left to take care of, after that. Drift helps Gasket up off the berth, makes sure he’s steady on his feet before he starts trying to go anywhere. Ratchet wipes down the berth and coils the wires and connectors back into their holders, crumples the tarp into a ball and sticks it into the dirty laundry bag. That done, he turns to see Drift and Gasket practically glued to each other’s side next to the curtain divider. 

“Same time next cycle?” Drift says, hand firm on Gasket’s back. Ratchet nods. 

“Same time,” he says, and jabs a finger in Gasket’s direction. “And you too. Don’t forget.” 

“We won’t, doc,” Gasket says, grins weakly and gives him a thumbs up with the hand that isn’t braced against Drift’s side. Then they’re gone, ghosting out the clinic with barely a sound. 

Well. That’s that, then. He sweeps a glance over the clinic, and oh. He should probably grab his cleaning supplies, before he leaves. Not that he’ll have the energy to have a good wash tonight, but maybe in morning if he gets up early enough. 

That done, Ratchet ducks past the divider, and out through the lobby and through the door. 

Letting it swing shut behind him, Ratchet turns to punch in the code to lock the clinic door. He shivers as cold snakes of air slithers past him, winding their way into every seam of his armor. Urgh. Only half a joor and he’ll be back in the cozy warmth of his little apartment, sipping on some hot engex. He can almost feel the plush cushioning of his oversized chair against his plating, the one indulgence he’d splurged on when furnishing his habsuite. 

The bolt slides home with a dull _clunk,_ and after one more last over Ratchet turns to make the trudge back to the tram station. Today is not the sort of day for the long winding drive between planet levels right now, and the trams will cut the time between him and his well-deserved glass of engex in half. 

The bitter swirls of fog mute the steady flickering of dull yellow sodium lights, drowning the street, thick and cold and choking . It’s going to be a bad night, this one. And he’d just let Drift and Gasket waltz right out, headed to who knows where with Gasket barely steady on his pedes. What kind of a place do they live in, to shelter them from this? They must have some sort of bolt-hole, some room, _something_. Ratchet should have sent them with some blankets at least, frag it all. 

He weaves his way carefully through the broken pavement and potholes towards the light of the tram. The ghostly green of the square digital lettering on the noticeboard proclaims _10 minutes until next tram,_ so Ratchet settles onto one of the slab benches not claimed by a huddle of recharging mech and clamps his plating close to try and hold in the heat.

His chronometer ticks slowly on, and Ratchet stares at the mist until it slowly starts to coalesce into shapes. There a crystal bloom. Above it he can almost see a speedster zooming around a racetrack, which slowly drifts a shape that almost looks Matrix-like. Then a _whoosh_ of air from the descending tram scatters the mist as it settles ponderously into the station. 

Ratchet ignores the ominous creaking made with every sway of the tram as he boards, and heads to the back before anyone else can snag the good seats. He tucks himself into a corner, turns to stare out the tiny square window made of smudged, shaded glass. 

Scrawls spider around the metal wall, scratched with such erudite phrases as _Dent was here_ and _no hope no dope._ Just below the sill is the more somberly poetic phrase, _Everything you love will be carried away_ and something twists sharp under Ratchet’s chestplate. He lingers over over the sharp-slashed lines, carved crudely into the metal wall.

Everything you love will be carried away. 

He shutters his optics, settles deeper into his seat and tips his head to rest against the back. On the tram’s overhead comm system comes the tinny sound of whatever government mandated broadcast they’ve decided needs to be pumped out today. Something condemning the recent riots in Kaon, some moronic blowhard droning on and onabout how ‘allowing someone to stand up and scream from the top of their vocalizer and nobody does anything about it is frankly — it's an embarrassment, shouldn’t be allowed.’ 

Pah. Ratchet turns his audio input down, tries to doze as the tram climbs up, and up. 

The tram settles into the next station with a shuddering thump, and Ratchet pulls in a deep vent. Almost home, finally. He’s the only one getting off this stop, and he steps off with an muttered thank you to the tram driver. The lights glimmer above him, brighter on this level, but Ratchet could find the path home in his sleep. He walks slower now, struts aching and he rolls his shoulders, tries to ease the tension. He’s nearly to his street when there’s a bright _ding_ of an incoming call on his internal comm. 

There’s only person that would be bothering him this late.

“Orion,” Ratchet says, and honestly, what in the world is Orion doing up at this hour? Ratchet may have the luxury of setting his own hours but Orion’s shift starts early in cycle. 

“I know, I know,” Orion says, voice crackling a little and Primus he sounds exhausted. “I couldn’t settle into recharge. Figured you’d still be online.” 

“You know I have drives to help with that,” Ratchet says, and Orion huffs. 

“No, I don’t need one, I’m fine,” he says, voice fond.

Is he though? It’s definitely like Orion to stay up late caught up in some project or another, but simply being unable to wind down enough to recharge…

“Is it the archive? Other mechs got you worked up over something?” Ratchet says, and there’s his apartment complex. He trudges up the stairs to his third floor habsuite, fishes in his subspace for his key. Old-fashioned maybe, but cheaper for it and Ratchet’s never had any problems in his little borough. 

“No, not that,” Orion says, and hesitates. “I’ve been… I’ve met someone. You remember that bunch of essays I showed you a few decacycles ago? _A Willing Prisoner, Beyond Almode,_ those ones?” 

Pits yes, Ratchet remembers those. Whatever suicidally brave mech churned out that series of Anti-Functionist propaganda is walking a dangerously thin rail over an open slag pit. 

“Of course I remember,” Ratchet says. “I _also_ remember it getting banned by the Council. Why?” 

Orion clears his vocalizer.

“Um,” he says, “It’s, um. Possible. That I might have contacted him. The author.” 

Oh, he _didn’t_. 

“You what,” Ratchet says flatly. “No, what am I saying. Of course you did.” 

Orion lets out a hum that’s both vaguely embarrassed and not at all apologetic. Well, Ratchet really should have seen this coming, he really should have. If there’s one thing Orion is absolutely slag at it’s leaving well enough alone, and refraining from sticking his overcurious olfactory into things that are decidedly none of his business. 

“Ratchet _,_ the way he _writes,_ the passion in it, how he cuts right to the heart of the corruption without pulling a single punch,” Orion sighs, and he sounds practically dreamy the overclocked wingnut. “No one else is willing to publish anything to the broader network like the things he writes.” 

“Can’t imagine why,” Ratchet says. “And did this paragon of a mech contact you back?” 

“Oh, _Ratchet,”_ Orion says, “he wrote back a whole letter arguing with me. It’s _wonderful.”_

“Right,” Ratchet says, pinching the bridge of his olfactory. “Wonderful.” 

Three doors down the hallway, and next is his. Ratchet unlocks the door, shoving it closed behind him with one pede. He cycles a deep vent, lets his shoulder sag. Finally home. 

Orion starts to ramble on more about this revolutionary of his, but before he can really get going Ratchet clears his vocalizer pointedly. 

“I’d love to hear all about your comrade in arms and the great revolution to come, but it’s going to have to wait until tomorrow,” he says. 

“Long day?” Orion’s tone pitches up in concern. “Is there anything–?” 

“Just need a good drink and a good defrag,” Ratchet cuts him off. “I’ll be fine in the morning.”

“Well, all right,” Orion says, worry still in his tone, the fusspot. “I’ll call you tomorrow then?” 

“Tomorrow,” Ratchet says firmly. “Goodnight, ‘Rion.” 

“G’night,” Orion says, and the comm disengages with a quiet _click._

Ratchet makes his way to the cabinet of engex on autopilot, swiping a cube off the counter on the way. Maybe a vintage Polyhex blend tonight, something mellow and not too sweet on the glossa. Topped off with a few silver curls, it’ll hit the spot perfectly. 

Revolutions and riots, hah. Someday, the tension simmering is gonna come to a boil, and the whole fragging planet’s gonna blow. 

Drink poured and topped, Ratchet plops into his chair with a happy groan. Damn, but this chair was worth every shanix the seller squeezed out of him. Just outside the window a slow _tap, tap, tap_ starts up, the first threatening drops of an acid rain dripping from the overhang to the railing below. The clatter of city noise rises and falls beneath it, honks of irritated mechs in altmode, the slam of windows and doors shuttering to keep the rain from blowing inside. 

Ratchet takes a long sip of engex, lets it sit warm on his glossa a long klik before swallowing it down. He dims his optics, slumps further into his chair and lets the din of the city blur into a soothing white noise. He’ll finish this cube, and then head to recharge. Just a few more minutes. Then he’ll go. Just a few more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote on the tram wall is a homage to Stephen King's short story, All That You Love Will Be Carried Away. The words of the broadcast blowhard are a reference to quote from a dangerous blowhard of America's very own.
> 
> All the love to you wonderful people reading this, especially everyone taking the time to leave kudos and comments. Happy Upcoming New Year, and in the words of Neil Gaiman may your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. x


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cables in Ratchet’s neck throb, overstretched and aching as his processor slowly boots. Urgh. Slag-sucking spawn of wasteland scrapheap, this is what he gets for falling asleep in his chair instead of his perfectly good bed – sore cables, and an aching helm. He twists his helm to one side, then the other, reaches up to give his neck a perfunctory massage. Not that it does much.

The cables in Ratchet’s neck throb, overstretched and aching as his processor slowly boots. Urgh. Slag-sucking spawn of wasteland scrapheap, this is what he gets for falling asleep in his chair instead of his perfectly good bed – sore cables, and an aching helm. He twists his helm to one side, then the other, reaches up to give his neck a perfunctory massage. Not that it does much.

He heaves himself out of his chair, stumbles still only half-online towards the washrack only narrowly avoiding a collision with that particularly sticky-out bit of his counter on the way. Frag, if he’s going to keep doing this to himself he might as well put all his tonics in the same living room cupboard as his engex, save him a trip. Or at least save him tripping over everything half-awake on the way to the washrack. 

The medicine cupboard in the washrack hangs slightly ajar from yesterday’s morning trip, and Ratchet flips it the rest of the way open scanning for… ah, there. 

He plucks the little bottle off the shelf, snaps the cap off and downs the tonic in one gulp, head tipped back and optics offline. His helm pounds. It’ll only be a few klicks before it reaches his tank, fuel pump shooting it out through his lines and it’s only a few klicks after that before it starts kicking in. One of the good ones, this particular blend, a bit of an energy boost, and a relaxant added too. Will come in handy for those strained cables, especially today. 

Might as well plug in a pain suppressor while he’s at it, he’s still got a good supply of external drives for that. It’s not like he’s using them every day. Just when he needs one to get going, has a bad night. 

Although he really does need to pick up a few more bottles of that tonic, his supply’s getting rather unfortunately low. Yet another errand to add to his to-do list, bah. 

He stares at himself in the washrack mirror as he waits for it all to kick in, the dulled glow of his optics, the plating that really does need a wash. No wonder Drift was giving him a look yesterday in the wash – the curse of primarily white plating. Ratchet barely has to walk down the stairs and he’s got a new scuff or mark somewhere on him. Some thought niggles at the back of his mind, ghosting through his processor but before he can latch on to it it’s gone. 

Guess there’s nothing for it then. A good hot solvent shower, a quick scrub, and then he can swing by the corner store before he heads down to the clinic. Some extra spices, additives and suchlike would be a nice treat after the day they had yesterday. For after they’ve finished the day’s work of course. Then Ratchet can send Drift on his way and call Orion back. After all, Orion still hasn’t given all the details about this new… friend he’s making. 

This time when Ratchet unlocks the clinic there’s no silent speedster appearing over his shoulder to startle him. The lock pad still takes multiple pointed jabs before it sullenly _boops_ to allow Ratchet entry. Dammit – maybe it is time to add that repair to the list of What To Fix When Primus Rains Down Money. 

Not that it would matter, really. What little stash of shanix Ratchet had asked, bargained or wheedled for when he opened the clinic was slowly depleting with every cycle. 

He shutters his optics, vents a long slow cycle of air, and shakes himself with a ruffling flair of plating. 

Right. Drift and Gasket must be running late so he might as well get started prepping the clinic. Everything’s clean, and mostly stocked from yesterday so it shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. He might even have time to heat up a cube of energon before it gets too busy. 

Half a joor later though, and neither his erstwhile patient nor his new employee have arrived. Finally, ten breems to opening Ratchet brushes through the plastic divider to the front to nearly run face first into a very sheepish looking Drift. 

A Drift who is _not_ in fact accompanied by anyone else. 

Ratchet raises an orbital ridge, waves Drift over to the front desk and says “I did say Gasket should come in the morning, you know. Is he coming by closer to closing then?”

“Um,” Drift says. 

“Since I distinctly remember ‘tomorrow being mentioned during our conversation. The one we had yesterday,” Ratchet says, folding his arms as he props a hip against the desk. 

“He couldn’t come,” Drift says, stoic. His mouth crumples down, the point of one denta worrying at his lip.

“Uh huh,” Ratchet says. “Couldn’t or wouldn’t.” 

Drift turns his head, scowling at the wall. 

Great. Think, Ratchet. The way to get Drift to open up to him is definitely not like this. He exhales a long vent, uncrosses his arms and reaches up to rub at the side of his helm, the phantom ache the painkillers hadn’t quite been able to kill. 

“Kid, I’m not mad,” Ratchet says. Which might be a little bit of a lie. But he’s not mad at Drift so it’s _basically_ not a lie. “I just want to make sure he’s okay. That virus can be rough, and even without that he…” how to phrase this delicately. “Your friend looked like slag.” 

Well. It’s not untrue. Hetries to will Drift to meet his optics, smoothing his field so it pulses calm. It takes a moment, but then Drift offers grudgingly, “Gasket doesn’t like medics.” 

He still determinedly avoids any optic contact with Ratchet. “I told him you’re good, it’s nothing you did yesterday but…” he trails off, picking at the edge of the desk. 

Ratchet shutters his optics, opens them again. He can guess, after all, what Drift’s not saying. There’s all kinds of crazy rumors wary mecha have mentioned in passing when they come through his clinic, asking questions that make Ratchet struggle to keep an even field. Horrible things, the kind of things no licensed medic would ever do; and yet…

Rumors stain the water through a drop of truth after all. And with the prejudice and Functionist propaganda poured into the very foundations of every institution on their planet–

No. Ratchet can’t blame Gasket. 

“If he changes his mind,” Ratchet says, “he’s always welcome.” 

His hands twitch. He turns away to fuss with the row of seating, nudging them around until they’re all lined up just so, just so he has something to do with them.

“Make sure you take a cube of medical grade with you tonight,” he says, and reaches up to flick the neon window sign to light the obnoxiously orange ‘clinic open’. “And one of those warming blankets. Primus knows I’ve got plenty of them.” 

He stares at the sign for a long moment, then turns abruptly around. “I’ll be in the back, when the first ones show up.” 

He doesn’t wait to see what Drift will do with that, bustles his way back past the divider. Maybe he should double check the crash cart while he has the spare breems – it’s been a few cycles and while thank the stars he hasn’t need it it’d be just like the universe to wait until something in the cart’s expired to plop a guttering patient in their lap. 

Ratchet never does make that morning energon.The clinic pace has picked up, at least for this cycle anyway. Must’ve been a full moon last night, ha. By the time the two of them have the last patient out the door it’s nearly as late a finish as it was the cycle before, even without a surprise patient on the verge of stasis lock. 

AS late as it is though, there’s still one thing Ratchet wants to do before they close up the clinic for the cycle. Drift’s management of the front desk and patients has been nothing but improving but part of this whole arrangement was geared at Drift being able to learn something. Do something. Have choices, a future. 

Which means it’s time for Drift’s first lesson. 

The timer on the energon warmer dings cheerily and Ratchet grabs a cube in each hand, brings them to the desk where Drift is still sorting through the last of the flimsies from earlier. 

“Did good today, kid,” Ratchet says, hands over one of the cubes. It’s still steaming gently, unfortunately _not_ topped by any of the additives Ratchet again forgotten to pick up. “You ready to learn more?” 

Drift stops with the cube halfway to his mouth, and cocks his head. “More?” 

“Didn’t think I’d stop with having you hand datapads forever, did you? Fast as you pick things up,” Ratchet says, takes a quick gulp of his energon and sets it on the desk. “Gonna start you off with some basic medical intake.”

He leans to the side, poking his head through the divider enough he can drag out the vital signs cart. “This cart here has everything we need to establish a baseline for every mech that walks through those door. Mecha lie, but their vital signs don’t,” Ratchet says as he pulls out each set of equipment attached to the cart, laying them over the desk so Drift can put servos on them all. “Now from what you’ve seen here, what sort of things do you think I’m looking for when I’m hooking a mech up to this?” 

Drift’s optics narrow, focusing in on the line of equipment. 

“Spark rhythm,” he says after barely two klicks. “Fuel levels. Fuel pressure. Air flow?” 

He pauses after the last one, glancing hesitantly over at Ratchet. 

_Knew_ the kid was a quick study. 

“Exactly,” Ratchet says. “All of that, plus we need to check cydraulic lubrication levels, and internal temperature.” 

He gestures to the first set of monitor lines coming off the vital signs machine. “Let’s start with spark rhythm. These fives leads all need to be hooked to pads on the mech’s chassis, at least for most mecha. There’s disposable stick-on pads here on the side, that go on the plating. Then the lines snap onto those.” 

Ratchet offers his handful of half-tangled lines to Drift. 

“They’re color-coded to the location, see? Matches the pictures on the machine,” he says, taps the cart. “That way even if you forget, there’s a reminder. It’s not the most accurate though, so I’m going to have you practice on me a few times before we have you try it on a patient.” 

Drift nods, gaze bouncing between the wires and the display screen. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but closes it just as fast. 

“What is it? Spit it out,” Ratchet pokes a servo at him. “You’re _supposed_ to have questions.” 

The wary twist of Drift’s faceplates gives Ratchet the impression the notion is an entirely foreign concept, but he sets the handful of wires down and says, “But what if you can’t put the pads on those places? ‘Cause their kibble’s in the way or something.” 

“Aha,” Ratchet says. Wasn’t expecting Drift to pick up on this that quickly, but what he been saying. Smart. “And here we run into our first example of the flaws of medicine and medical equipment – rather, who’s in charge of it all on Cybertron. You’re exactly right. This monitor is designed to work ideally on a mid- to upper-caste civilian mech with a typical ground vehicle alt-mode and minimal additional kibble.” 

Drift’s lips twist, servos curling into fists and in half a klick he looks orns older. 

“Right,” he says. 

“So what I have here,” Ratchet waves a hand at a palm-sized datapad on on of the side-pockets of the cart, “is a guide to placement for different frame types – aerials, warframes, minibots, so on. Until you’ve had a chance to get good at this, that’s what you’ll be using to guide the placement of the leads on _every_ mech we care for.” 

It takes less than half a joor of practice with the spark monitor leads before Drift’s gotten good enough he can wire Ratchet up without looking at the reference display. 

“That’s good, kid,” Rachet says, grins down at Drift as he carefully peels the pads off Ratchet’s chassis. “Think you’ve got the basic idea down. So we can either–“ 

He breaks off as the door chime lets out a high-pitched ring behind him. Ratchet sighs, because, dammit. This better be an emergency. The clinic closed almost a joor ago. He peels the last pad off himself, says “Just give me a klick…” and stomps over to the door. Pulling it open with a grumpy _What_ about to come out his vocalizer he cuts off because wait. 

Orion? What in the universe is Orion doing down here? 

“Hey, Ratch,” Orion beams at him, shoves of bag of something at Ratchet. Ratchet snatches it with a roll of his optics and pulls it open just enough to see – ooo. Additives, the good ones, and a box of engex laced goodies to boot. 

“Aw, my favorite,” Ratchet drawls. He shifts the bag to one hand and slings an arm around Orion’s shoulder, pulling him close enough to affably knock their helms together. “How’d you guess.” 

Orion taps the side of his helm wisely. “Getting predictable. Gotta start shaking things up.” 

“Slagger,” Ratchet pulls him the rest of the way into the clinic and kicks the door shut behind him. “Drift, c’mere.” 

Drift stands half between the front desk and the entry, like he’d started to move closer in case Ratchet needed back up and had froze there when he’d realized Ratchet knew the strange mech at the door.

“Orion, this is Drift,” Ratchet says. “He’s my new assistant.” 

Orions eyes him, says, “New assistant huh.” 

Like the genial mech he is, he moves smoothly a few steps closer to Drift; just enough to pulse his field in a polite greeting as he relaxes his hands to his sides and opens them palm up in Drift’s direction. “Good to meet you, Drift. It’s about time Ratchet stopped trying to be a one mech army down here.” 

Drift nods, plating slick to his frame and doesn’t return the field pulse but Orion is unperturbed. Well, he has been spending just as much time down in the lower levels, albeit for completely different reasons than Ratchet. He knows how it is with the mecha down here. 

“You’re one to talk, _Orion,_ ” Ratchet says. “What was that little project you just finished working on, hm?” 

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Orion says serenely, just the tiniest twitchof an unrepentant grin tugging at the corner of his intake.

“Uh huh,” Ratchet says, pokes him in his pauldron. “You definitely never singlehandedly spearheaded a public access archive when you found out the area you were in didn’t have one accessible closer than five megamiles.” 

“It was only a little archive,” Orion says, optics blinking huge and innocent. “And don’t think I can’t tell you’re trying to change the subject.” 

From the corner of Ratchet’s optic he sees Drift none too subtly sidling closer to the exit. He catches Ratchet’s gaze and freezes, says awkward, “I should go.” 

Right. It’s late. There’s Gasket. 

“Of course,” Ratchet says, “don’t forget the blanket and the med-grade. Make sure he gets at least half the cube down tonight, even if it takes him a few breems.” 

Drift nods, reaches down to flash a corner of a blanket out of his subspace and when in the world had he tucked that away? 

“I will,” he says, and then he’s gone, disappearing out the front faster than breath of fog. As soon as the door shuts behind him, Orion turns to Ratchet with an all-too-nosey gleam in those deceptively innocent looking optics of his.

Nope. Time to head _that_ off before he gets going. 

“So what brings you down to my little clinic,” Ratchet says, moving to sit on the edge of the desk and waving Orion into the seat behind it. “And don’t feed me slag, the real reason.” 

Orion shifts guiltily on his pedes. “There wasn’t a _real_ reason, I just haven’t seen you in ages. And when we were talking last night you sounded like something was on your mind, I just…” 

He shrugs, and lowers himself gracefully into the chair. His frame isn’t that large, especially considering some of the warframes that have popped into the clinic, but he’s bulky for an archivist. Bulky to work in the spaces he works, and it means all his movements comes with the particular careful grace that’s part his own and part that of someone used to moving in spaces built just slightly too small for them. 

“Well, _I’m_ perfectly fine,” Ratchet says, then tilts his head and smirks. “Although not quite as fine as it sounds like _you’ve_ been. Written back to your, mmm… friend?” 

“ _Ra-_ tchet,” Orion groats, letting his head clunk against the back of the seat. “I’ve only written him twice, I hardly think I have the license to call him a friend yet.” 

“Uh huh,” Ratchet says. “So you did write him back. And how did that go?” 

“He hasn’t replied yet,” Orion says. “It’s been less than a cycle though. Just because _I_ work on a datapad all day doesn’t mean he does. And maybe his work cycle’s longer.” 

“You don’t know what he does?” Ratchet says, and leans his weight on one arm as he shifts closer on the desk to Orion. “Besides writing inflammatory anti-Functionist essays.” 

The look Orion gives him is entirely unimpressed. 

“He’s careful, when he references himself,” he says, “even before the Council ban. Which means–“

“Means he’d probably be in even ore danger if the Council finds out who he is and what his function is,” Ratchet says, and cycles through a long vent. This idiot amica of his, really. “I’m not even going to attempt to tell you what a bad idea it is to keep writing him, because I know you won’t listen.” 

“What he has to say is _important,_ Ratch,” Orion stretches out a hand to rest it close to Ratchet’s leg, letting their fields twine close and comfortable. “What he’s doing, it’s the beginnings of a revolution.” 

“A revolution, huh,” Ratchet says. 

“The greatest and most powerful revolutions start quietly, hidden in the shadows,” Orion says, “you know as well as well as I do that’s where Cybertron is headed.” 

“I don’t know slag,” Ratchet says. “And I especially don’t know that whoever this particular mech with no sense of self-preservation is, is going to be the one to spark it.” 

“You need to read his work, Ratch, he’s _brilliant_ ,” Orion says, rubbing idly at the edge of Ratchet’s plating. “And he’s hardly written anything of length yet, this is just the tip of what he can do. It just makes me want to get inside his processor…” 

Ratchet slowly turns to stare at Orion as he trails off, and has the great pleasure of watching Orion’s optics spiral wide in slow motion mortification as he replays what he’s just said.

“Mm, wanna be in his processor do you,” Ratchet smirks down at Orion’s rapidly blushing faceplates. “Wanna _get inside_ him.” 

“That’s not– you know that’s _not_ what I meant, dammit Ratch,” Orion says, vocalizer sputtering. 

“Gonna have a little _meeting of the minds,_ ” Ratchet says with all the overdramatic innuendo he can possibly infuse into his vocalizer. “That what you young mecha are calling it these days?” 

“You’re a terrible mech,” Orion grumbles, gives up on poking sulkily at Ratchet’s side to thunk his helm onto Ratchet’s thigh. “The absolute worst, I hope you realize.” 

Ratchet pats at Orion’s pauldron soothingly. “You only say that because you know I’m right.”

Orion mumbles out some unidentifiable noise and buries his face agains the crook of Ratchet’s leg. So ridiculous, his amica, and Ratchet’s spark wheels a happy loop in his chest. He gives it a rub to settle _that_ nonsense and relaxes down into the warmth of Orion’s field, settling closer, still rubbing absently at his shoulder. There’s still a time before the next tram leaves after all. No reason to rush out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so it's been a bit of a bad brain couple of weeks, but here it is. thank you again so, so much to everyone taking the time to leave kudos and comments <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not enough. Not enough, not enough and his hands blur faster and faster in the open chassis of the mech in front of him, shaking but sure, sucking up every computational resource it can until the world narrows into nothing, focus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for vague nightmares (no graphic imagery) and references to depersonalization

Not enough. Not enough, not _enough_ and his hands blur faster and faster in the open chassis of the mech in front of him, shaking but sure, sucking up every computational resource it can until the world narrows into nothing, _focus._

Dark. Ratchet can’t move. Weight presses down on his chassis and someone’s calling his name, faint, barely in audio pickup range but he needs to _go_ , needs to move, frag frag frag and then it’s gone and it’s dark, music pounding he’s moving, dancing, writhing, moving, a hundred frames of a hundred frenzied mecha, tangling and tugging at his field, strobe white starburst flashes of light pulsing in time to the rhythm, _move move._ Vibrations shiver up his legs through the floor.

Somewhere, he should be somewhere? But he’s not, too late, hot needles of panic skittering lines up his spinal strut and Ratchet explodes to his pedes, vents flared and plating flared and-

 _Slag_.

The clinic’s dark. Only the faint dull gleam of red equipment lights illuminate the black, and Ratchet vents, and vents.

It was only supposed to have been a short nap. Just a few minutes of recharge to get him through the drive back home. But his chronometer glows in the corner of his HUD, early into the morning cycle and he’s here.

He needs to get the clinic ready for opening. Dirty cubes sit piled by the sink from his and Orion’s late night snack, and the berth is covered in condensation sweat. He starts to move towards the washracks, stops. Nothing feels real, his frame moving through space like it’s not attached to him, like he’s in some holosim riding someone else’s memory. His helm pounds. Least he’s got the good painkillers here, hah.

His fuel tank heaves an uneasy churn at the thought of energon, but there’s plenty in the cooler for later. Maybe some of that magnesium Orion had brought will help it go down easier. He leans against the berth, optics shuttered and audial input dialed down. Makes the world spin a little drunk dizzy around him, but at least it doesn’t feel- it’s doesn’t…

Ratchet pushes himself upright, sucks in another deep unpleasant vent of air into his cooling systems.

Bah. No more of _that_ nonsense. He puts his motorsensory system through a forcible reboot, lets it slowly load back online. Ruffles his plating, lets it smooth back down. Cycles his optics.

Gotta shake it off. He’s got an assistant to teach, and seeing as all the opening tasks are done but for a few he might be able to get his little tutoring session in before they start clinic. Picking stuff up fast, that kid, and if he keeps absorbing knowledge at that rate Ratchet might even be able to talk to him about the medical assistant tests in a few decacycles. Get him all legit and licensed up.

Except the clinic opening time comes and goes, and no Drift. The patient load is still at the steady buzz it’d ratcheted up to in the past few cycles, leaving Ratchet scrambling to handle them all alone. It’d only been a couple days, but he’d somehow slipped right into being used to having Drift around.

That damn fool kid better not have gotten himself caught up in something else he couldn’t get himself out of.

Ratchet drinks his magnesium laced midday energon alone, staring out the grimy glass. If he’s casually keeping a corner of his optic out for his wayward assistant, well, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

The afternoon doesn’t run as chaotic as the morning, but by the time Ratchet gets to wrapping it up it’s almost evening. At least the routine of it settles him, the repetitive cleaning and sorting and stocking. He’s finishing the last of it when behind him there’s the whisper-drag of the front door across the floor.

Ugh. He thought he’d locked that. It’d better not be another patient. Ratchet half glances over his shoulder and _oh look._

Guess someone finally decided to show up after all.

Drift shuffles in hesitant, slowly nudging the door closed behind him when Ratchet doesn’t immediately start in on the yelling. Not that he won’t because _damn_ the kid. Leaving Ratchet to wonder if he was out there face down in some gutter leaking out, or snatched up by enforcers, or Primus knows what else.

Ratchet even gives him a good long moment to start giving an explanation for where exactly the hell he’d been, but Drift doesn’t say a word. Just stands there, plating shivering in intermittent little bursts and fine. If that’s the way he wants to play it.

“There a reason you didn’t show up this morning?” Ratchet bites out, shoving flimsies back into their slots. The edge of one dents as he slams it in a little harder than he meant to and he exvents, makes himself slow down.

“Couldn’t make it,” Drift says, low and sullen and what the pits does _that_ mean.

“Couldn’t make it,” Ratchet says, and spins to face him. “Because…?”

“Just couldn’t,” Drift says. “What do you care?”

“What do I _care,_ ” Ratchet says incredulously. “What do I _fragging care_?”

He stomps closer to Drift, fuel pump picking up as he opens his mouth except-

No. He _isn’t_. But now Ratchet’s close enough it’s obvious. Drift’s optics are washed a sickly yellow again, and dammit dammit _dammit._ Kid’s back on boosters, still on boosters, whatever, the point is he’s still jacking himself down into an early grave.

“What the _slag,_ ” Ratchet says, the delicate mechanisms in his digits twinging as they tighten, balling into fists.

“What,” Drift says and he’s squared off with Ratchet like’s he’s readying for a fight, but he’s still not looking him optic to optic.

“Don’t give me that load of shuttlescrap,” Ratchet says. “You’re boosting again.”

“So what if I am,” Drift says, “gonna kick me out? Just do it. You know you were gonna eventually, just get it over with.”

Get it _over_ with?

“What in the- I wasn’t- what in the pitslag is that supposed to mean, dammit kid,” Ratchet says, stares at the hazy glow of Drift’s optics until the image blurs, folds his arms, pins his hands against his sides until they stop shaking.

“I’m not,” Drift says, low and bitter.

What?

“Not what? Trying to piss me off?” Ratchet says.

“Not a slagging _kid,”_ Drift says. “You keep saying that. ‘M _not_.”

And Ratchet’s already got half a dozen sharp replies on the tip of his glossa but this time he forcibly mutes his vocalizer before they can come out. Shutters his optics. Thinks of the kind of marks on Drift’s frame when he was splayed on Ratchet’s medberth baked out of his Primusdamned mind, the easy practiced way he supported a barely upright Gasket, thinks of being left in cold and desperation and never-ending dark.

“No,” Ratchet says, soft. “You’re right. You’re not.”

All the steam and bluster rushes out, the weight of the day sinking heavy into the struts of him. He needs to go. Let Drift have some space. Get some air. Have a smoke. Something. He lurches forward, toward the back of the clinic and the emergency exit to the roof.

“There’s energon. In the cooler. I need to…” he says, waving at the back and ducking beneath the divider. Static buzzes in his audials. Drift’s vocalizer spits out a jumbled blat of noise, but Ratchet doesn’t turn around. Maybe Drift will be here when he comes back, maybe he won’t, but at least he’ll have fuel for the road.

Slag, he needs a drink.

Above, the early evening chill winds around his plating as Ratchet picks his way through broken stone and rubble, jagged metal ends of struts rusted through. At the edge of the roof is a slag of stone, still cleared from the last night trip up here, if covered in soot and dust.

Meh. It’d do. He collapses down on the edge of the roof, rummages in his subspace until he finds the dirty stub of a memno-stick. Yeah, sure, he’s a doctor, should know better, clogging up his vents and sending him to early spark strain, blah, blah, blah. He lights it up, sucks in a deep billow of smoke, holds it, exhales.

The smoke fades out, a ghostly blur barely visible against the dark around him. The lights of Dead End glitter below, a versicolored blanket of stars spread out to the horizon over the sullen skeletons of buildings half-decayed. The only kind of stars you could hope to see buried this deep in the Primus-forsaken planet.

Ratchet takes another long drag of the memno-stick, lets the drugging calm wash through him. What he wouldn’t give for a cube of engex right now. Even that cheap swill of an engex he’d bought by the case in med school, that couldn’t practically doubled for paint-thinner. Couldn’t beat that price though.

Behind him comes the barely audible squeak of the roof door. Oh look. Guess Drift hadn’t high-tailed it off to whatever hole-in-the-wall he squatted in after all. Ratchet’s hand spasms, and _dammit_ what he wouldn’t give for that engex.

Drift doesn’t make a sound as he settles on the edge of the roof, a breath away from Ratchet’s side. His field’s pulled tight to his frame as always, and he doesn’t say a word, just sits there.

Well, what the hell.

“Want a drag?” Ratchet says, offers him the memno-stick without looking. It’s certainly not the worst thing Drift’s put in his frame today. A klik later, and it’s plucked from his hand. Drift takes a practiced drag, worrying the stick gently in his digits as he shutters his optics and holds the vent for a long moment.

“’S good,” he offers, hands the stick back to Ratchet.

“Polyhexian blend,” Ratchet says. “Dark and spicy. Better than that shit from Tetrahex.”

Drift lets out a low hum of static. “Never had it. Knew a mech from Tetrahex though.”

“Did you?” Ratchet rubs absently at a seam of his thigh. “Did a tour there once, in the service. Never stopped raining, swear to Primus. Had to get a special anti-acid coating every decacycle I was there, ‘cause it was so easy to get caught in it.”

Hadn’t been his favorite tour, hadn’t been his least. What was lacking in big city amenities and weather conditions was almost made up for by the scenery – jagged mountain ridges rippling down into slick ink-black basalt flats, cracked rivers of crystal spilling out of seams in the high cliffs fading out to clusters of smoky prisms below. Ratchet still has one of those clusters somewhere, a sturdy clump about as big as a hand, like a jagged curl of smoke captured in glass.

“Someday, maybe I’ll go there,” Drift says, quiet, like a dream he doesn’t really believe. “Always wanted to just- leave. See it all.”

“You should,” Ratchet says. “Frag, kid- pits, sorry _Drift_ \- you should.”

“Me and what shanix?” Drift says bitterly. “No one wants to hire a functionless defect of a Dead End leaker.”

Ratchet sits up abruptly, sways a little as the buzz from the smoke hits his system, and reaches out to grip Drift’s shoulder.

“You send that load of slag back to the hellpits where it belongs,” he says, and gives Drift a firm shake before releasing him to pluck the memno-stick back. “You’re- you’re _more_ than that. I don’t give a turborat’s _tailpipe_ what kind of sludge the world’s been shoving down your intake, you can do whatever the hell you put your mind to. Be anyone you want to. Don’t let _anyone_ tell you different.”

Drift tenses under his hand, mouth half open, looking for all the stars like Ratchet’s just slugged him in the faceplates.

“Told you that you were special,” he says, willing Drift to see the truth in his optics. “Meant it.”

Drift doesn’t move, frozen and staring at him optics spiraled wide, glowing pale gold in the dark. He just sits there, looking at Ratchet, and pits. Maybe that was too much. It wasn’t a lie. Still.

Ratchet sucks in another drag of smoke, settles down into the cold stone below and stares at the lamps until the light blurs. One more drag, then one more, and holds the stick out to the side, not looking. Drift takes it, doesn’t say a word.

They sit there in silence, letting the strange unspoken tautness strung in the air between them slowly ease. The wind picks up slowly as it chills, the narrow pipes below them singing a low moan as it does. The only real difference between the night and day this deep below Cybertron’s surface; the strength of the cold.

“You don’t have to stop,” Drift says, abrupt.

“Mm?” Ratchet inclines his head.

“Don’t have to stop calling me kid,” Drift says. “Earlier I didn’t- I didn’t mean- it’s not the same, when you do it.”

Huh.

“You were right,” Ratchet says, sucks in another long drag of smoke. “You’re not.”

“Yeah, but it’s not…” Drift huffs, leans back onto his arms. “’S different. You’re different.”

Is it? Ratchet offers the memno-stick to Drift, watches the edge of his finial gleam as it catches the light. All curves and sharp, sweeping angles, dirty off-white plating, scuffed and faded. An easy sort of coiled grace in his frame underneath the wary hesitance, and strength. A survivor.

“Will you be back tomorrow?” Ratchet says. Better get it out now, cut quick and clean. Drift freezes, then deflates with silent exvent.

“Do I still have a job?” he says, cocks his head towards Ratchet.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Ratchet says, and plucks the stick back. “I’ll see you in the morning then.”

Some strange expression flickers over Drift’s faceplates, almost too fast for Ratchet to catch and he nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “I… yeah.”

He gives Ratchet another awkward half nod and pushes himself up. Before Ratchet can say a word he disappears over the side of the roof, and quicker than a glitchmouse he’s gone. Back to Gasket, and whatever sorry patch of stone they call home. Something knots and sours, in the pit of Ratchet’s chassis.

Had any of that been the right thing to say?

Any of it been enough?

His auxiliary air vents snap shut as his frame finally reaches a chill point in the cold damp of the night. Ratchet takes a long drag. He should get up. Go inside. Finish closing the clinic and start the drive home. Not the tram, not tonight. His internal comm _pings_ with a message, startling him upright for a klik, but it’s only Orion. He dully gives it a scan, something more about this Megatronus mech and some rally he’s holding, but it’s nothing urgent.

It’s fine. Ratchet will get to it tomorrow. Eitehr way, Orion will throw himself into this with his whole spark, not a care for how hard he’ll land, just because he believes it’s the right thing to do. He wouldn’t be Orion if he didn’t, and Ratchet loves him fiercely for it, fierce and aching and forever. His dearest person, his _amica endura_. He’d never know why a crotchety, antisocial slagger like him got so damn lucky.

Below him there’s a faint snap-crack, and a patch of rust-orange light in the distance winks out. Too far away to tell the cause, but there’s no shouts of pain. His memno-stick is down to a stub, about to burn his digits and he takes one last long drag, holding it in his vents until angry alerts pop onto his HUD. He releases it all in a gush of heated air, steaming the air in a cloud around him before the whispers of wind dissolve it.

Maybe that little crush of Orion’s will grow into something more, and maybe it won’t. Either way that Megatronus better appreciate what he’s got.

Ratchet flicks the stub over the side of the roof, and hauls himself creakily to his pedes. His joints stick and protest, decacycles of build-up gumming the servos and spitting of sparks of pain. He puts his hands to the small of his back and arches, stretching snarls of cables until they unkink, staring up at the endless dark draped above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again to all you lovely people reading this. <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tram rocks gently, a soothing sway nearly enough to lull Ratchet back down into recharge. The morning newscaster chatters away on the overhead about the latest holostar scandals, which paramour Senator Shockwave had been flouncing around with at last night’s gala. His tone dips to forced uneasy cheer as he prattles on about the unrest in Kaon, those empty-helmed disposables and arena killers making a stink over nonexistent problems and anyway really they’d brought it all on themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm in the middle of nowhere and my internet went dead for a week, but it's finally back! Have an extra long update (for me) in celebration. 
> 
> Also this is now officially the longest fic I've ever written. Although it's close to being completely drafted, yay! Thanks again to everyone who's stuck around this long :) x

The tram rocks gently, a soothing sway nearly enough to lull Ratchet back down into recharge. The morning newscaster chatters away on the overhead about the latest holostar scandals, which paramour Senator Shockwave had been flouncing around with at last night’s gala. His tone dips to forced uneasy cheer as he prattles on about the unrest in Kaon, _those empty-helmed disposables_ and _arena killers making a stink over nonexistent problems_ and _anyway really they’d brought it all on themselves._

Ratchet clutches his thermos of slightly steaming energon to his chest, wishes he’d bought a slightly less insulated version so the heat would soak through to warm his frozen digits. Nearly the turn of the season, coldest time on Cybertron, air sliding chiller and chiller. Just because chronic overheating is the silent killer doesn’t mean he _enjoys_ the cold.

Maybe it’s time to send out some feelers for real, see if there’s anyone willing to do some repair work on the antiquated heating system in his clinic. The last thing glitching systems need is cold bad enough to practically cause ice formation in their vents.

Ratchet slurps at his energon, blowing out through his helm vents when it registers as nearly hot enough to burn his glossa. The sweet-spice hits a moment later, and he shutters his optics, leans his aching helm against the seat back behind him.

His struts ache, his fuel tank flopping and churning uneasy. His own damn fault, going for that saccharine Helix blend. Nothing hits a system harder than all that over-sweet syrup of an engex, ugh.

The overhead chimes a warning, bland synthetic vocalizer announcing a quarter joor to next stop. Ratchet slurps another mouthful of energon, winces as it burns.

Should probably actually read that message from Orion before he gets caught up in the clinic chaos. He pulls out his datapad, opens his message box, and maximizes Orion’s latest missive. Skins it over quickly, then pauses, and goes back to the part where Orion tarts talking about his brilliant new plan to _meet_ this revolutionary friend of his; not over a casual cube of energon, not for a nice chat at the closest crystal garde, but at a _Pitslagged revolutionary rally._ The sort that the Senate was cracking down on, with overeager armed enforcers and _dammit_ Orion.

What in Primus’ holy ports is he thinking? What was he saying, Orion wasn’t thinking, he was throwing himself helmfirst into trouble, the soft-sparked fragger. Clearly the thing Ratchet can do now is ensure that Orion doesn’t go off on this foolhardy mission all on his lonesome. Besides, judging from the footage of the last rally Kaon had tried to hold…

Well. Ratchet would make sure his medbag was fully stocked. And he had a few spare first aid kits to hand out, just in case.

The overhead chimes the 20 klik warning and Ratchet pushes himself out of the seat, sways a little as he gets his pedes under him. Thinking on Kaon, wonder if Flatline’s still practicing out of there? He hadn’t been the most social of mecha, hadn’t kept much in touch with anyone from their service days. Ratchet should look him up, see what kind of shenanigans that gigantic lugnut was up to these days.

The tram shudders as it docks. Ratchet throws a last over the shoulder glance at his seat to make sure nothing’s forgotten, and trudges towards the door. Maybe Drift…

No. Take it as it comes. Maybe Drift will be here today, maybe Ratchet really had scared him off. Doesn’t really change a thing. Mecha come and mecha go.

He chugs another mouthful of energon, clicks on one of his old school gravelpunk albums. Tunes out the gloomy blur around him, and trudges on to the clinic.

Ratchet needn’t have fussed. There’s a collection of dingy white plating and half-wary optics loitering against the clinic door. Drift tilts his head, slinks to the side so Ratchet can get to the lock pad. Some tension pulling Ratchet’s cables taunt eases, settles.

“Morning,” Ratchet says, jabs the stubborn keys with practiced ease. He’s finally got the knack of getting them to cooperate, so it looks like something else gets the privilege of being moved up the priority queue. Not that it actually matters with no shanix to spare.

“Morning,” Drift says, follows Ratchet into the clinic with every step tentative, like he still isn’t quite sure of his welcome. He’s somehow gotten slightly more dingy looking overnight, the effects of the wash nearly gone now. Oh well. Ratchet will have to bully him into another one tomorrow.

“Have you fueled yet? What am I saying, don’t bother answering that,” Ratchet says, and gulps down another mouthful of his own before setting it on the counter and reaching for the cooler.

“I did,” Drift says, hugging his arms to his chest. “Last night Gasket got a- he brought back some. For both of us.”

Uh huh. Ratchet’s sure that it was just _positively_ the best quality and they _definitely_ had enough to fully fuel both of them. Sure.

“Humor me then, kid,” he says, ugh and he shouldn’t call him that… except Drift said he hadn’t minded. That Ratchet was different, for whatever reason he’d latched onto in that ridiculous processor of his. Ratchet would do him the courtesy of taking him at his word.

He pours a cubeful of energon and sticks it in the warmer. Sets it to pleasantly steaming, then turns to pull out the bag of additives.

“You like magnesium? Got some copper curls in here too, if you’ve got a sweet tooth,” he says. When there’s no response, he glances over his shoulder to see Drift staring at him blank-opticked.

Oh. Of course.

“Magnesium’s a little warmer on the glossa, a hint of spice at the end,” Ratchet says. "Copper’s sweet. You have a preference?”

Drift hesitates, faceplates shifting and creasing as he visibly weighs his options like the choice he makes is going to determine his future or some shuttlescrap.

“You know, whichever one you don’t try this morning you can try at lunch,” Ratchet says casually, leaning against the counter.

Drift takes this in, and after another kilk says tentatively, “The copper curls? I haven’t … I haven’t had those before but I found this copper flavored crystalized energon stick once and it was. _Really_ good.”

“It won’t be as sweet as all that,” Ratchet says, “but it’s pretty sweet. Orion got a pinch of it for me mostly as a joke – he knows I go more for the spicier additives. You’re practically doing me a favor, drinking it.”

The timer on the warmer _dings_ and Ratchet flips the door open, sprinkles a generous handful of copper on the cube before handing it off to Drift.

Drift takes it, opens his mouth, and closes it. Ratchet raises an orbital ridge and that seems to be enough prompting because Drift says quiet, “Orion your… conjux?”

Ratchet reflexively resets his optics in surprise.

“My _conjux_? Orion’s not my conjux, he’s my amica,” he says blankly because honestly. Orion? His conjux?

Not that Orion’s not gorgeous – all deceptively graceful chunkiness, crooked grin, and clever digits – on top of all that incredible smarts and the biggest spark a mech could harbor. But no. Maybe in another lifetime, in another universe, that’s how they fit together. But in this one the perfect fit of their imperfect pieces merged into the shape of unbreakable amicas.

The life Orion wants to build, the kind of conjux partner he needs to build it with, that isn’t Ratchet. They didn’t want the same things out of that kind of bond and they were lucky enough to see it right off, lucky to have the time to figure out how their sparks still spun and twined and clicked into perfect rhythm. An amica Ratchet had never thought he’d find, a concept he’d scoffed off as rosy-opticked thinking for mecha whose joints still squeaked.

He’s still reserving judgement on this whole conjux business.

“We’ve been amicas since I was in the service,” Ratchet says, tucking the additives back into their container. “I don’t have a conjux.”

Although it makes sense Drift would have thought that, he supposes. Others often did, when the y first saw the two of them together. Anyway, quite enough standing around. He flaps his hand at Drift, adds, “Go ahead, drink up. We have vital signs to review before we open today.”

Drift stands there a moment like he’s been thunked in the side of the helm with a chunk of concrete, which seems like a weird overreaction honestly, but then he shakes himself and hurriedly lifts the cube to his mouth.

He starts to automatically pour fuel down his intake like he _wants_ it to bypass his receptors and freezes, optics spiraling open to their maximum aperture. He pulls the cube away long enough to stare at it with an expression of bewilderment, takes another drink much more slowly this time, letting it trickle onto his glossa.

“Sweet, right?” Ratchet says. “What do you think?”

Drift hums a blissed out buzz of static, and doesn’t stop sipping reverently at his cube.

Good. Drift deserves good things.

“Well, while you’re enjoying that I’m going to get everything set up, ep ep ep, take your time,” he says when Drift makes an aborted movement to put the cube down. “It’s going to take me a few kliks, don’t rush.”

Drift hesitates, and then seems to take him at his word. Ratchet gives him a firm nod, then goes to pull out the spark monitor. Drift seemed to be getting the hang of it last time, so they’ll go over it a couple times just to make sure he remembers the jist of it, and then it’s time to move on. Nothing more with that can be done without actual patients of different frame types to practice on.

They can probably cover air flow and temperature today, since those are both fairly straightforward. Should leave them just enough time to open.

“See this?” Ratchet holds up the rounded tunnel of a clip, insides pulsing with a steady red light. “Air flow monitor. This will give us exact measurements of how a mech’s internal air systems are running, but what else do you think we can be looking for before we even put this on?”

Drift looks at the clip, looks at Ratchet.

“Where their primary vents even are?” he says. “Gonna be tough hooking a clip onto vents if you’re fumbling all over yourself feeling them up trying to find where their primaries are ‘cause they’re not practically on display like one of those tinfoil topsiders.”

His faceplates scrunch up, and he adds guiltily, ”Um, no offence.”

Ooh, look at that. Seems like someone’s getting over his shyness.

“Exactly,” Ratchet says, lips quirking up. “You can get all caught in the protocol and forget the obvious. So look for their vents. Depending on what kind of frame they’re sporting, might a little difficult to find. At some point I’ll bring you a frame anatomy book, but mostly it’s an experience sort of thing. Every mech is going to have external vents. Don’t make them have to show you where they are unless you absolutely have to. Easiest way to make it look like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Drift nods, tilting his head and narrowing his optics like he’s calling up every frame type he’s seen. He leans on one pede, cocking his hipsection which does nothing but emphasize the ridiculous waist to hip ratio he’s got going on. Damn speedster types. All those curves and contrasts.

“And after you find them, just clip it on to any random slat in the vent?” Drift asks.

“Exactly that,” Ratchet says, and demonstrates by snapping it onto his own abdominal vents. “Easy as a plug in a jack.”

“Right. ‘S why no one ever goes to jack in with the plug the wrong way round,” and that little shit. Ratchet finds his lips tugging up again in spite of themselves even as he snaps back, “Maybe you just have to have the experience to do ‘em right.”

Drift stares at him, orbital ridge hiked up practically to his helm for a long moment and then like he just can’t help himself drawls, “Uh huh. And medics are all about… doing it right.”

“Exactly, smartaft,” Ratchet rolls his optics hard enough to strain, and plucks the air intake monitor off and grabs the thermometer. Look at all this sass and snark that was hiding under that wary hostility. He doesn’t know what about their conversation last night had flipped some switch in Drift’s processor, but he wasn’t going to look a gift zap pony in the mouth.

“This,” he says, lifting the thermometer, “is just about as easy as the intake monitor. You just have to roll the ball against any area of exposed protoform and it’ll pick up internal temperature.”

Drift’s forehead crinkles down. “But what if they don’t _have_ any exposed protoform?”

“Every mech has exposed protoform,” Ratchet says. “You just might have to get them to lift their plating a bit to get to it.”

“Lift their _plating?_ ” Drift says, mouth open and sounding as scandalized as an upper-cast mech at a cable orgy.

“Lift their plating,” Ratchet nods. “Any place will do, but the first symptom of a lot of the more serious viruses is an elevated internal temperature, and as my medical assistant you are _not_ going to let a little squeamishness get in the way of patient care.”

Drift frowns, pulling himself upright.

“It’s not _squeamishness_ ,” he says, with a discomfited ruffle of plating. “It’s just- private. Letting someone touch your fragging _protoform.”_

“Well, you’re going to have to suck it up, crystalcup,” Ratchet says blandly.

“Has anyone ever told you how delightfully diplomatic you are,” Drift mutters under his breath, still shaking his plating into place with uneasy little flutters. “The picture of tact and restrain.”

After he says it, he gets this look like he almost regrets it but set his face, and doesn’t take it back. Good. Even if it zaps his diodes he’d rather have this version of Drift than the one tiptoeing around his clinic like a half-spooked glitchmouse.

“If Primus wanted a wilting bit of aluminum with _tact_ and _restraint_ he wouldn’t have sparked me,” Ratchet says. “Now no more histrionics, take my temperature.”

Drift invents a long pull of air, reaches for the thermometer with all the frame language of a mech about to march himself and his pulse rifle to the front lines. He takes a step closer to Ratchet, then another, and hesitates.

“Come on, I don’t bite,” Ratchet says, tilting his head and tapping the side of his neck cabling. “There’s a good spot here, if you nudge the cabling to the side. Best spot on any heavily armored frame, really, even if mine’s for transport and protection instead of for fighting.”

Drift takes another step, another, inching closer a smidge at a time until he’s close enough Ratchet can feel his field, even pulled as tight to his frame as it is. It sparks against Ratchet’s own, tendrils of it reaching out without either of them consciously trying as Drift leans in close and brings the thermometer to Ratchet’s neck.

His other hand moves slowly up to meet it, two digits wedging between the sturdy cabling and gently, gently edging them apart.

Ratchet keeps his faceplates blank, manually sets his vents slow and even. It’s been… Primus, it’s been ages since he’s had another mech besides Orion this close to him. Drift’s frame radiates heat, the strangely intoxicating frequency of his field – the one that makes him blurt out idiot things about Drift’s _specialness –_ automatically attempts to mesh from sheer proximity and _frag._ Ratchet suppresses a shudder as the natural charge of another field sparking this close shivers down his frame.

This doesn’t mean anything. It’s just training. This is necessary. It’s not like Drift can practice easily on himself after all.

His interpersonal subroutines send a confused query about whether he wants to relax his plating in invitation and he firmly denies it. Over him, Drift slowly sets the ball of the thermometer against his protoform and Ratchet shivers at the bite of metallic cold.

“If you,” Ratchet’s voice comes out rough and he coughs, tries again. “If you want to be nice you can warm it against your own frame first before you stick it on someone’s protoform. Don’t have to, but you can.”

Drift hums an absent agreeing noise, but he doesn’t seem to be moving. Just stands there, entirely too close, hand woven around the vulnerable cables of Ratchet’s neck. He probably needs time, is all, having trouble getting it exactly flush to the protoform so he can get a good reading. Ratchet vents , slow in, slow out, focuses on the steady pull of air through his systems.

Another few kliks go by though, and Drift _still_ hasn’t moved so Ratchet shifts, says, “Got the reading, kid?”

Drift startles, plating flaring out before pulling flush and his field ripples with embarrassment.

“Yeah, you’re good, I mean it’s good, got the reading,” he says, backs hurriedly out of Ratchet’s space and drops the thermometer on the berth like it’s on fire. He’s gone from still as stone to practically vibrating, shifting from one pede to the other and what in the hell is that all about?

But, of course. He needs to remember, just because _he’s_ been a practicing medical professional for vorns he forgets other mecha aren’t so used to how personal it can all be. Getting up in other mecha’s space, even inside them. Takes time to adjust, is all. Drift will get there.

“Perfect,” Ratchet says, and tucks the thermometer back in its charging station. He checks his chronometer, and damn – they’re going to be cutting it close to opening time. “Now double check the waiting area, I’ll double check back here. We’ll keep going with this tomorrow.”

Clinic is easier today, now he has his assistant back. Lunch comes before he knows it, with Drift’s first taste of magnesium which leads to a hilariously crinkled face and a brand new opinion that copper curls are delicious but magnesium is an affront to good energon. The afternoon passes as quick as the morning, and then closing. Drift lingers, arranging and rearranging the last of the chairs but Ratchet finally shoos him out with a promise to see him in the morning.

When the tram hits the level of his hab, Ratchet shifts in his seat half-rising, and settles back in. He could go home, to his book and his cold berth but something restless churns in his spark. Maybe tonight he could go to that bar a couple levels up on the edge of the sort of prissy over-polished neighborhood that Ratchet usually avoids – but it’s dark, and cozy, with bartenders who make the drinks on just the right side of bitter, which altogether makes it worth the trip.

Another quarter joor and he’s there, narrowing the aperture of his optics as the tram door opens to practically blinding light. Ugh. He’d forgotten there was still a joor ‘til dark up here. He’s gotten used to the constant dim, and doesn’t that make his former life feel a world away.

The walk to the bar is just as filled with over-shiny mecha and bland, perfectly sculpted architecture set at perfect angles. The only crystal gardens visible are arranged into neat, symmetrical rows, not a sparkly point out of place.

Ratchet ducks down a side street, where the shadows make him feel a little less like a black smudge on white paint. The sign arches over the door, engraving gently worn – _The Bar at the End of the Universe._ Still stubbornly clinging to life after all these vorns and looming gentrification. He pushes the heavy, old-fashioned door open and yup. Looks exactly the same as the last time Ratchet made it up here. Perfect.

He settles onto the stool in the furthest corner of the bartop, tucked away from the babble and busyness. The newest Scrollspin novel is downloaded and ready for him, and the bartender will be over soon enough for his order. Something dark and smooth, he thinks. Maybe some of the house special salted crystal chips on the side, if they haven’t run out.

He shifts a little in his seat, settling in. He’s needed this, needed to get out of his head. Except his luck stays as perfectly terrible as it usually does and he’s barely opened the first chapter when an unfortunately familiar vocalizer clears his throat behind him and says, “Why, if it isn’t The Hatchet himself.”

Slag.

Ratchet resists the urge to turn down his audio input and pretend he hadn’t heard, if only because it wouldn’t make any difference in the end anyway.

“Pharma,” he says, slowly sets down his datapad with deliberate care onto the bar top. This is what he gets for coming to a bar on the upper levels. But of all the haunts, all the evenings, Pharma just had to flounce his way into this one.

“Why, it’s been practically a vorn since I’ve seen you last,” Pharma says, smoothly sliding himself into the seat next to Ratchet’s and waving an imperious hand at the bartender in summons. “How _are_ you doing?”

“It hasn’t even been half a vorn,” Ratchet says leaving the _unfortunately_ unspoken, “and I’m doing quite well, thank you very much.”

“You know how time flies when you’re busy,” Pharma flutters his wings, tilting in so they’re rather uncomfortably sliding all too close to Ratchet’s back kibble. “And the Senate is _always_ busy. Why just the other day Senator Ratbat-“

“Are you getting a drink?” Ratchet breaks in before Pharma can start blathering about the horrible Senate cronies he calls colleagues and gestures at the patiently waiting bartender.

“Why of course,” Pharma says, mouth pulling in stiff and puckered at the interruption. “One mineral martini on rocks, and one… mimetite julep wasn’t it?”

Ratchet mutters a begrudging affirmative.

“You never change, do you Ratchet,” Pharma says, smile false and ingratiating as he leans closer. “I always did like that about you. Very… consistent.”

Ratchet huffs.

“You mean stubborn,” he says, puts both arms on the bar and leans forward. “Set in my ways, contrary, blah, blah. Don’t have to use that silver tongue on _me_.”

Pharma laughs.

“Like I said,” he says. “Same old Ratchet. How long has it been now, since we signed the final discharge doc?”

“Two vorn,” Ratchet says, and damn it it hasn’t flown by faster than greased metal.

“And yet some days it still seems like a decacycle ago,” Pharma says. “Remember that little clinic in Helex?”

Ratchet grins before he can stop himself.

“Lucky we came out of that humidity with our plating rust infection free,” he says. “I _still_ have bottles of Freebolt’s rattling around my hab.”

Pharma shutters dramatically.

“Freebolt’s Rust-eeze is an affront to nasal receptors everywhere. And it didn’t even work.”

“It worked a little,” Ratchet quirks a half grin at him. “That humidity wasn’t really a fair fight.”

Pharma tips his helm grudgingly and adds, “Well, if I never have to experience Helex again, it’ll be too soon.”

“Aw, it wasn’t all bad,” Ratchet says. “Remember the branches of lace-salt hanging off every ledge? Prettiest sight, especially with the sun coming up behind it.”

Pharma snorts. “If I want to see a pretty salt formation, I’ll go the conservatory gardens where I _don’t_ have to flare every vent in my frame just to stay marginally cool.”

Damn delicate jet. Pharma’d never really adjusted to the service, the conditions they were inevitably sent into. That Senate job he’d snagged, complete with salary enough for a hab with private oil bath and plenty of space for his polishes was definitely more his speed.

The bartender slides their drinks in front of them, one mineral martini on rocks and a mimetite julep as ordered. Ratchet tips a nod to him when Pharma doesn’t bother to look up, and sets a reminder to tip him well for putting up with Pharma’s casual condescension.

“Enough about the old days. How’s that charming little clinic of yours, Ratchet?” Pharma says. “All the way down in Dead End, is it? I hope that’s going… well.”

“Fine,” Ratchet says shortly, and chugs half his drink in one go. He waves the bartender over, pointing to his glass to request another.

“I imagine it must be rather frustrating,” Pharma says, “Dealing with…” and he pauses again like some kind of pretentious vocal tic, “…mecha of that particular caliber.”

Jackaft.

“Take them any day over the kind of whiny tin-plated tailpipe lickers that mince into _your_ practice,” Ratchet says. Oh good. The bartender must have seen his face and had rather prudently expedited his drink order.

“ _Really_ Ratchet,” Pharma says, mouth puckering into an annoyed little moue. “Still as foul-mouthed as ever. I would have thought you’d have broken that habit after you left the service.”

“You say that like I didn’t already have a mouth like a deep-space miner when I etched my glyph on the dotted line,” Ratchet says, downing the last of his first cube. He swirls the garnish in the new one, takes a sip and hums with satisfaction. Just as perfectly bitter and biting on the glossa as the last one – there’s a reason he comes all the way up to fuel at this particular bar.

“True, true,” Pharma says, indulgent. He sips delicately at his engex, tilts his helm just enough to watch the scroll of news on the screen mounted above the bar six seats down. More news of the increase in riots, and Ratchet can practically feel his cabling tense as he watches the newscaster drone on placidly, splatters of dried energon gouged into the ground behind him.

“Ridiculous,” Pharma sniffs, takes another dainty sip of his drink. “Filling the streets with their noise and nonsense. The Senate’s not going to stand for it.”

“The Senate should think about why mecha feel the need to fill the streets,” Ratchet says, “and they aren’t standing for it. Unless mecha have spontaneously starting leaking energon all over the city in protest too.”

Pharma waves a hand dismissively.

“Oh, the rabble will always find _something_ to complain about,” he says. “The economy’s the most stable it’s been in vorns, you know, and Functionless mecha are at an all-time low.”

Which- okay. Ratchet doesn’t even know where to begin with that. But his struts ache, and he doesn’t actually have the energy to argue that bit of misleading nonsense right now and even if he did the last person who would thoughtfully take it in is _Pharma._

He clicks dismissively, and please let him change the subject but no. Pharma just has to keep running his vocalizer about slag he doesn’t know a mecharat’s aft about.

“You know the Senate is losing patience with this little rebellion,” Pharma says. “If _I_ were you, I might start looking at alternative employment options. It _would_ be a shame if a doctor of your caliber was to get caught up in the inevitable crossfire from one of those little….kerfuffles.”

Kerfuffles. Sure a nice word to describe armed jackboots beating innocent mecha until they nearly guttered.

“It will be a shame if you don’t learn to mind your own business,” Ratchet says, flicks his fingers at Pharma.

“Don’t be like _that,_ ” Pharma says, putting a hand to his chest, expression wounded. “Can’t a mech express concern for an old and valued colleague?”

“Express all you damn well want,” Ratchet says. “Preferably somewhere out of my audio pickup range.”

Pharma sighs fondly, like this is some kind of _friendly banter_ and slagging hell Ratchet can’t stand him anymore. How in the universe had they managed to stay in a relationship as long as they had?

But then, Pharma hadn’t always been like this. Not until….

Ratchet sags a little deeper into his seat.

“It’s late. I should be going,” he says dully, and fumbles in his subspace for a handful of shanix. Another perk of this particular bar – it didn’t charge an arm and a leg for a watered down cube of nothing.

“No, no, let me,” Pharma says soothingly, flips a credit chip toward the bartender before Ratchet can stop him. “You have enough on your plate with your little charity project, I can cover it.”

“Not a slaggin’ _charity project_ ,” Ratchet bites out. “And I can pay for my own damn drinks.”

“Of course, of course,” Pharma says. “Next time then.”

“Right,” Ratchet says. If he has his way, there’s absolutely not going to be any more times at all. He slumps a little further over the bar top, nurses at his drink.

Pharma clears his throat delicately, and then a little louder when Ratchet ignores him. After a few more attempts at conversation that Ratchet answers with grunts Pharma seems to realize that Ratchet isn’t rising to his politic poisoned needling anymore and pushes up off his seat.

“I should be going, it _is_ getting rather late,” Pharma says. “And with the sort of emboldened riff raff prowling around these days, it pays to take a little extra caution.”

“Hmph,” Ratchet grumbles into his drink. “Don’t let the door hit your aft on the way out.”

Pharma gives a fake little giggle like he’s joking, but Ratchet doesn’t even look up. Good riddance to Pharma, and every fawning complicit two-faced Pitslagger like him, smiling while they trod blithely over the greyed corpses of their fellow mecha.

“I’ll leave you to your drinking,” Pharma says. “You will be alright to get home?”

Ratchet lets out a rude click. “I c’n take care of myself,” and why isn’t the damn fool leaving?

“A last toast then,” Pharma says, and lifts his glass sending the last fizzy green dregs swirling dizzily around the bottom of the glass. “To life after the service.”

Ratchet lifts his glass just high enough to mimic a semblance of participation. Pharma seems to finally have run out of excuses to stay and so thank the stars above gives Ratchet one last overly familiar field pulse and a flutter of his overpainted wings and minces back towards the exit.

Primus. The mood’s been spoiled, his datapad still sitting there askew and reading it now seems as unappealing and chewing a lump of congealed energon. That’s it. Might as well call it a night.

He drops a handful of shanix on the counter, enough to cover the tip Pharma definitely didn’t leave. The bartender throws him a grateful salute with his fingers and Ratchet nods. Pushes himself off the stool, trudges for the door feeling as weighted down as a loaded concrete mixer.

It’ll be a long wait for the tram, and even later ‘til he’s in his bed. He could comm Orion, ask to crash at his place…

But he’s probably asleep by now. Well, he’ll give it a ring and if Orion doesn’t pick up he’ll suck it up and wait for the tram.

Outside it’s close enough to the surface the sky breaks through the gilded towers overhead, faint pinpricks of hazy light glowing yellow and pink and white. Nearly as bright as the street lights below and Ratchet tucks his servos into the crooks of his arms and stares up at them.

There’s not a lot on this level worth coming up for, but this sight, that tapestry of stars, is one of them. Maybe he can wheedle Orion into a late night picnic on the roof of his habsuite, sneak up there like trouble-making new-sparks, tangle up in each other and watch the stars spin slow and lazy overhead.

Just the two of them and the sounds of the city below. For a few perfect joor, forget the past, the present, everything; let all the world and the wrongs and the revolutions fall away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are chicken soup for the writer's soul, <3 to everyone who takes time to leave one.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ratchet,” Orion says, looking adorably sleep-rumpled, his plating half fluffed and optics still powering up to full luminosity.  
> “’Rion,” Ratchet says, reaches out to flick a scrap of metal shaving on Orion’s shoulder. Looks like someone had been up late carving glyphs. Probably fallen asleep on his desk, the ridiculous thing. An old-fashioned sort of hobby, but seeing the slim wall plaques engraved in Orion’s sharply elegant script made Ratchet almost see the appeal of it.  
> “What are you doing up here so late?” Orion says, tilting his head. “Not that you’re not welcome of course, come in, let me put the kettle on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of Cybertronian tea is borrowed from DesdemonaKaylose and their brilliant TF fics that include it including one of their most recent gems Tantric Sex and Other Mysteries of the Divine (https://archiveofourown.org/works/22293976) - I drink entirely too much tea and once I was introduced to the idea I couldn't resist having Cybertronians drink it too.

“Ratchet,” Orion says, looking adorably sleep-rumpled, his plating half fluffed and optics still powering up to full luminosity.

“’Rion,” Ratchet says, reaches out to flick a scrap of metal shaving on Orion’s shoulder. Looks like someone had been up late carving glyphs. Probably fallen asleep on his desk, the ridiculous thing. An old-fashioned sort of hobby, but seeing the slim wall plaques engraved in Orion’s sharply elegant script made Ratchet almost see the appeal of it.

“What are you doing up here so late?” Orion says, tilting his head. “Not that you’re not welcome of course, come in, let me put the kettle on.”

He shuffles out of the doorway, pulls the door wider.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Ratchet says, and a little squirm of guilt twists in his chest but it’s drowned out by the overwhelming relief of just being here, with Orion, feeling the steady warmth of his field soothing at the ragged edge of Ratchet’s own.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Orion says, grins crookedly. He snags Ratchet as he trudges past him into the hab, knocks their foreheads together gently. “Go grab that iron-cobalt blend, you know where it is.”

While Orion fills the kettle, Ratchet rummages through the overflowing cupboard trying to find the square grey tin of his favorite tea while avoiding knocking the conglomeration of other tins from their precarious balanced stacks onto his face.

“Dear Primus, Orion, have enough tea, d’you think?” Ratchet grumbles. “Don’t you need a few more boxes?”

“You can never have a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough,” Orion says serenely. The kettle slowly starts to puff out steam, and he pushes up on his pedes to grab two mugs off one of the topmost shelves.

“Debatable,” Ratchet says, and hah. There’s that sneaky little tin. The mesh bags are thankfully on the counter and not hiding in the maze of a cupboard, so he fishes two of them out, shakes a careless spoonful or so into each.

“You know, I do have tea spoons,” Orion says, “just exactly for that purpose.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ratchet waves a hand at him. “A whole extra step, and whole extra utensil to clean. It’s basically the same.”

Orion plucks the bags from Ratchet, deftly twists the tops closed and plops them in the mugs.

“So much work,” he says dryly, “a whole extra step.”

Ratchet reaches up to tweak his audial. “Don’t sass me, Orion Pax.”

Orion squeaks, promptly blushes a faint blue even as he primly ignores Ratchet and settles himself into the picture of beleaguered dignity. Behind him the kettle shrieks its ready noise, and he pours the water into the waiting mugs. Reddish-brown bleeds slowly in spiraling twists from the bags of tea powder, and Ratchet grabs one of them and lifts it to his nasal receptors. Mmm. That sweet-sharp tang was the fragging _best_ , especially to his still over-energized circuits.

“Do you,” Ratchet says and hesitates, dunking his tea bag in and out of the water. “We could take this up on the roof. ‘S been a bit since I’ve seen the stars.”

“Oh, _yes,_ ” Orion says, then adds like the giant dork that he is, “I’ve been reading this book on the history and different constellation names across Cybertron, and I’ve meant to get up and actually pick some of them out.”

Honestly. Being an archivist couldn’t have fit him more perfectly. It’s a good thing he’d never be made to be anything else – as if Alpha Trion would let anyone steal his prize mentee away. Not everyone got so lucky.

“Nerd,” Ratchet says, fond. “Well c’mon then. Bring your tea, and some of those rust sticks for dipping.”

Two rooftops in two nights. This one though might as well be in a different world, practically _is_ in a different world. Around them, the darkly polished taper of skyscrapers reach greedy and grasping to the sky. Ghostly points of light shine down through the covering haze of a thousand factories from a hundred cities. Ratchet doesn’t even remember the last time he saw the sky clearly; maybe, once, during his rotation on one of the distant moon colonies.

“What about here?” Orion says, shakes out the tarp with a sharp plastic snap and lets it settle onto the roof.

“Good as anywhere,” Ratchet says and lowers himself down, his joints protesting all the way. Orion of course sits down on the other corner with considerably more grace, dropping the pack of rust sticks between them and giving it a little pat.

“Help yourself,” he says. “And before you ask these are the iron dusted ones, not the copper.”

Oo, _perfect_. Orion knows him too well. Ratchet fishes between the crinkly tinfoil wrap for a stick, waits until Orion snags one of his own and reaches over to tap the tips together in a mock toast.

“To absent friends, old gods, and the season of mists; and may we always give the Unmaker his due,” Ratchet says raising his tea in sardonic salute and bites off half the stick in one mouthful. It’s perfectly crunchy, and before the last crumbles can melt in his mouth he swallows a gulp of tea.

Mmm. The way the magnesium set off the iron. A better combination had yet to be invented.

“You know you’re supposed to dunk those and then eat them,” Orion says, an exact third of his turning dark and soft as he dips it in his mug. “Also I’m pretty sure that’s not how that toast goes.”

“Pffft,” Ratchet says and shoves the remaining half of his stick in his mouth. “Unicron, Primus, Adaptus. Bunch of better-than-thou jackspikes who faffed off eons ago, if they ever existed at all.”

“ _Ra_ -tchet,” Orion says, face twists in the particular Disappointed Mentor look that he did so well, even as the hint of a fond grin twitches at the corner of his optics. “Try taking just _one_ cycle off from the blasphemy, will you.”

“Never,” Ratchet says. “You should know me better by now.”

Orions sighs, slumps a little closer to Ratchet so he can nudge his helm into the crook of Ratchet’s neck. “I know, I know. I still have to say it.”

Ratchet buzzes a rude burst of static.

“Sounds a you problem,” he says. He can practically feel Orion’s optic roll.

“Well the, speaking of you-“ Orion starts, but oh no, that’s not a good sentence.

“We were definitely not speaking of me,” Ratchet says. “We were _definitely_ speaking about you. And as such, speaking of you as we were doing, tell me more about this slag-circuit plan of yours to jaunt off to meet up with this mysterious crush of yours at a fragging _riot_.”

Orion reaches across to poke Ratchet in the side.

“Don’t try that again,” he says. “I’m wise to your diversions. We can talk about my _friend_ after you tell me what’s got your wires in a tangle.”

Scrap.

Ratchet shifts, takes another sip of his mug.

“It’s Drift, isn’t it,” Orion says, and makes a triumphant beep when Ratchet can’t stop his guilty twitch. “It _is._ Come on. Tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Ratchet says. “I needed an assistant. Drift needed a job. That’s it.”

Orion pokes him in the side again.

“Uh huh,” he says. “Pull the other one, it’s got bells on it. You’ve had plenty of mecha through that clinic of yours and this is the first one you’ve hired. _And_ -“ he pokes him again, “don’t think I didn’t notice your field when you were around him. There’s something else going on.”

“There’s _nothing_ else going on,” Ratchet snatches up another rust stick, and crams the whole thing grumpily in his mouth. “End of story.”

Whatever’s been lurking around in his emotional subsystems is a whole bunch of shuttlescrap. It doesn’t mean anything. Drift certainly isn’t doing this for anything more than the free energon for him and his friend, and the chance for the helping hand up in life that no one’s ever bothered to give him. Ratchet just happened to be in the right place at the right time. It’s certainly not _personal._

His field start to spike out in jagged fluxes, but his processor aches and he can’t muster up the energy to settle it. Orion immediately sobers as he feels it, the teasing flicks of his own field smoothing out into warm calm again.

“Ratch, it’s fine,” he says. “I’m just teasing you.”

He snuggles a little further into Ratchet’s side until the stiff of Ratchet’s frame gives in and relaxes down into the comfort of his amica.

Ugh. He shouldn’t have snapped like that. It’s like Pharma had said to him in a vocalizer cold as liquid nitrogen, all those orns ago after the horrible situation in Vos - _dear Ratchet, your problem is that you care too much._ It’s not Orion’s fault that whole situation is what it is, and it’s not fair to take it out on him.

“I ran into Pharma tonight,” he says abruptly.

“Oh,” Orion says, keeping his field relaxed and neutral. “And how did that go?”

Ratchet snorts.

“How do you _think_ it went?” he says. Orion takes a moment to consider this, clearly choosing his words carefully as he says, “I think the two of you have a lot of difficulty communicating, and you have history between you that’s never been resolved.”

So diplomatic, Orion was.

“That’s one way to say it,” Ratchet says, downing a long gulp of now lukewarm tea. It’s still perfectly spicy on his glossa, but Primus he wishes it was engex. The last of the buzz from earlier is gone, leaving his processor entirely too sober for this conversation.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Orion says.

Good. Because Ratchet definitely doesn’t want to.

“Enough about me,” he says. “Tell me more about this brilliant plan of your to meet up with your friend at a Pitsdamned riot. You know _most_ mecha choose a tea shop, or a park for a first date.”

“ _Ratch,_ ” Orion says with a longsuffering groan. “It’s not a _date._ I’m meeting up with him to hear his speech, and then discuss his new polemic in person. It’s a perfectly reasonable thing to do.”

“Oh yes,” Ratchet says. “Perfectly reasonable. Just two mecha against the world, fighting the powers that be, sharing all their innermost, cherished beliefs.”

“Ra- _tch,”_ Orion whines, and Ratchet can practically feel the heat radiating off his faceplates.

“Maybe over a romantic meal, lots of low lighting and meaningful looks,” Ratche adds, gleeful. “Just two friends being friend-like, doing strictly friend-things together.”

“You’re terrible,” Orion says, banging his helm against Ratchet’s shoulder. “You’re a terrible, terrible mech, I hope you realize. And that is definitely not what’s going to happen and I definitely don’t have a _crush._ ”

Uh huh. And Seekers don’t care for flying. Orion may come off as unflappable to everyone else, but he’s not fooling Ratchet.

“Mm,” Ratchet says. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

Orion makes a pained noise of defeat, and slumps back down against Ratchet.

“Drink your tea, you slagger,” he says. “And watch the stars. That’s what we came up here for, right?”

Hmm. Ratchet supposes. He tips his helm back, stares up at the sky above. Just to his left the faint orange glow of Bello, and just above it what might be the milky swirl of the Confligere nebula.

Maybe he should get Orion to point out some of the lesser known constellations. Not that he particularly cared what some ancient scientist had designated them as, but seeing Orion’s face light up, his optics glowing and his hands waving as if all that enthusiasm had to have an outlet somewhere…

“You should tell me which ones I should be watching then,” Ratchet says. “C’mon, Orion. Show me the stars.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos are chicken soup to the writer's soul <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know he’s gonna take it down,” Gasket says. His arm dangles over the edge of the makeshift berth he’s splayed himself out on, half-smoked cygar held loose between his digits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a hell of a few months, yeah? Thank you to every still reading, and especially especially thank you to everyone who took the time to leave comments and kudos. Getting those kept me motivated through the tired to keep chipping away at this once the job-and-life chaos died down. <3
> 
> Have a Drift and Gasket interlude - hope you enjoy!

“You know he’s gonna take it down,” Gasket says. His arm dangles over the edge of the makeshift berth he’s splayed himself out on, half-smoked cygar held loose between his digits. 

“You don’t know that,” Drit says, and carefully scrapes away at the upper edge of a delicate oval-shaped sheet of tin. “Ratchet probably won’t even notice it, he always comes down here with his arms full of something.”

Gasket’s skeptical raise of his optic ridge is obvious even from Drift’s seat a length away on the floor.

“Uh huh, ‘cause medics are known for being unobservant,” he says, flicks his digits in Drift’s general direction before taking a long drag off his cygar. The embers glow a ruddy orange a tthe end of the stick, Gasket’s optics dimming as he blows out a hazy cloud of smoke. 

“Oo, yeah, this’s the stuff. _Totally_ worth putting up with fuckin’ Rotomouth,” he says, settling further into the haphazard tangle of mismatched bedding. He waves the stick, rolling his head to the side so he tilt it at Drift in invitation. 

“Nah, mech,” Drift says, bites his lip as he chips away at the last stubborn jag of metal on the charm’s edge. “You earned it.”

There. As close to a perfect oval as he can get it. Now he just has to etch it and it’ll be perfect. Good enough, anyway. 

“Wingnut,” Gasket says. “Like you haven’t been bringing home all the energon lately. Stop being a stubborn aft and get over here.” 

Drift sighs but stops his carving and pushes up to his feet. The temperature is starting to drop, wind eeling in through all the little cracks they hadn’t managed to plug up, and over by the berth is warmer anyway. It isn’t like the dim lighting can get any worse over there. Maybe next time he was out scavenging he could dig up some better lamps. All those thin-plates living on the upper levels thought just because a thing stopped working meant it’d never work again, but most of the time you could swap a few parts and it’d practically be good as new. 

“And turn the music up, won’t you,” Gasket says, scooting lazily closer to the wall. 

“Any louder and it’ll blow the speakers,” Drift says, but stops to nudge the dial up on the who-knows-how-many-vorns old radio. The low thudding swing of the bass echoes tinny through the tiny speakers, the gravelly croon layered over it singing some song about no tomorrows.

“Won’t,” Gasket says, proffers the cygar to Drift as he wedges himself onto the berth next to Gasket’s helm, leans back against the wall behind. “‘Sides, if it does, you’ll fix it.”

Drift snorts, nudges Gasket’s side with his knee and reaches over to pluck the cygar from from Gasket’s hand.

Gasket laughs, trailing off into a cough. His vocalizer lets out a pop as he cycles it off and on, and Drift may not know much but he knows that’s not a good sound. The virus might be gone, but whatever damage Gasket had taken to frag up his vocalizer had stayed. The fatigue had stayed too, no matter how much he tried to hide it. Stubborn aft. 

He takes a long drag on the cygar, holding the smoke in his mouth until it burns. He dims his optics until the room swims in a haze of shadows, blows it out. The weight of the cygar leaves his hand as Gasket plucks it back and Drift reaches down to pick up his knife and charm again.

“You know,” he says, carefully not looking up from his etching. “You don’t have to go out tomorrow. If you don’t want to.”

Iron-headed slagger that he is, likes to pretend he’s all fine and recovered but Drift isn’t an idiot. He can see the dimness around the edges of Gasket’s optics, way his grip shakes on the lid of his paint canisters. 

“You got your job, and I got mine,” Gakset says, takes a long drag off his cygar. “I’m fine, fusspot.”

“Sure you are,” Drift mutters and digs his knife into the metal hard enough it almost punches through. If only there were more mecha like Ratchet slumming it down here, so Gakset wouldn’t have to put himself in danger like he did. Lucky all he’d gotten was one virus that bad. Lucky he’d gotten over whatever his thing was about doctors long for Ratchet to fix him, even if he refused point-blank to go back for his follow-up. Maybe next time he wouldn’t find Drift in time. Maybe there wouldn’t be someone like Ratchet to fix it.

“You know I _am_ older than you,” Gasket says. “Supposed to be me worrying about you.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Drift says. “Besides, I can worry about you just fine. I’ve got myself a fancy new job now. Might even learn enough by the time he kicks me out I can make a little money fixing mecha up myself.”

“Atta mech,” Gasket says, grinning. “Told you you’re the smart one.”

“Who taught who how to write?” Drift says. “Don’t give me that slag.”

Gasket blatts out a rude noise, but he’s not fooling Drift. Whatever happened before Gasket ended up down here, he _knew_ stuff. Certainly more than a factory reject like Drift. 

“Ratchet was serious though, what he said about teaching me,” he says. “Not like I could be as good as him, but I could do some of the little stuff.”

He carefully scratches the blade in tiny lines in the center of the charm. He might not be an artist but this kind of detail work, the precision of it, was easy enough once you got into the rhythm.

“Could teach you,” he says without much hope. “Then we could work together.” 

The lazy blanket of Gasket’s field twists harsh for a moment and he shakes his head.

“I’ll leave the fixing to you,” he says, pulls in a long drag of smoke and shutters one optic in a wink. “Got my own tricks.”

Drift doesn’t look up, reaches out his field to weave back together with Gasket’s. It’s comfortable, familiar. 

The music fades out in a spit of static, then fades back in. It’s a femme’s voice now, even more gravelly than the mech before her, dipping low and crooning back up sweet as syrup. Something almost familiar about it, like he’d heard it spilling out some back-end bar’s window when he was ambling by, the kind of song you never forgot even if you’d never learned the words.

With a last twist of his knife, the charm is finished. Drift eyes it, the tiny glyph for protection tucked inside the spiraling curl of the optic. Not as straight as if he’d been able to do it with a real etching tool and without any of the flourishes that a real artisan would add, but good enough. A proper Optic of Unicron, just small enough to fit in the space above the clinic’s door. He sets it carefully on the sill of the boarded up window above his head and tucks the knife back in his subspace. 

“Looked good,” Gasket says, craning his head back to stare up at the glint of light off the edge of the charm with drug-mellow optics. “Better take an image capture so you can make another when the doc takes that one down.”

“I’m telling you afthead, he’ll never notice,” Drift says, bumping his knee into Gasket’s side again. “And he better not take it down, I’m not making another one. ‘Mnot an artist like you.”

“An _artiste,_ I think you mean. They’ll call me the Samo of Dead End,” Gasket says grandly. “After all graffitti is the next great art movement. The original legend himself’ll come down to shake my hand.”

Drift rolls his optics, mouth turning up in a smirk. He slides down the wall and snugs himself tight against the warmth of Gasket’s side, tilting his head to stare up at the bright splash of orange and blue on the ceiling just above. 

He could spend hours lost in one of Gasket’s paintings, all the sharp lines and careful details, pictures within pictures. All of them like Gasket couldn’t help but yank the spark from his chest and splash it raw and flaring on every surface he lived in from floor to roof; hollow old rusted-out rooms turned to galleries by a burned-out race car, that no one will ever see but them.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s an Eye of Unicron nailed to the top of Ratchet’s door. Barely as big as his palm, made out of some piece of weathered, scrap metal and from the looks of it probably etched by hand, but undeniably an Eye of Unicron. What in Primus’ rusting chassis was it doing there?

There’s an Eye of Unicron nailed to the top of Ratchet’s door. Barely as big as his palm, made out of some piece of weathered, scrap metal and from the looks of it probably etched by hand, but undeniably an Eye of Unicron. What in Primus’ rusting chassis was it doing there? 

Ratchet pushes up on his pedes, juggling his bundle of supplies into one arm so he can reach up and poke at it.

“It’s an Eye of Unicron,” Drift says behind him. Ratchet nearly drops his bag. Honestly, he really should expect it by now. 

“Told you, warn a mech,” he grumbles under his breath. “And I know it’s an Eye, I wasn’t protoformed yesterday.” 

Drift ghosts closer, looking bright-eyed and almost perky for once. 

“You should leave it,” he says, quietly plucking a few of the more dangerously wobbling items from the top of Ratchet’s armful.

“And why, exactly, should I leave it?” Ratchet says, arching an optical ridge. He gently rubs a digit on the amulet’s smooth metal edge, carefully sanded down.

Drift narrows his optics. 

“It’s for protection,” he says. “You need it.” 

“And I suppose this little piece of metal will do that for me?” Ratchet say. He’s seen them around before around the Dead End, an ominous spiral of an optic usually centered around some sort of glyph for guarding, protection, or luck. There’s fancy ones sold off street carts, kitschy sort of knick knacks painted up in bright blues and reds, and less fancy but far more ominous ones welded out of dark chunks of metal bigger than Ratchet’s helm. They’re scratched practically everywhere down here; over doorways and windows, sprayed in colorful dripping pain on walls. He’d even had a few mecha come into his clinic with the mark engraved on them and filled with pigment by some back-alley tattooer.

“It’ll _help_ ,” Drift says. “Your door barely locks. And…” he looks Ratchet up and down with an air of world-weary skepticism, “You stick out worse than an Enforcer at a dross rave. You need it.” 

Ratchet’s optics narrow. 

“I’ll have you know I was a _combat_ medic before I picked up the shiny degree,” he says. “I can take care of myself quite well, thank you.”

“Uh huh,” Drift says. “Right.”

Fragger. Although Ratchet can’t blame Drift for not taking him seriously looking just as polished up as any other topsider buzzing around here on a whim. He gives the amulet one last pat. 

“I don’t suppose you know how it got there,” Ratchet says. He enters the code, reenters it when that same damn button doesn’t work. He half turns to get his shoulder against the door and heave it open, but Drift is scowling at the ground with… is that a _blush_?

When Ratchet pointedly cycles his vocalizer, Drift’s blush deepens. 

“Made it,” he mutters.

Huh. Ratchet’s chest does something funny as shoves the door wider. The etching had been incredibly precise, the circle of it nearly perfect for having been made with whatever cobbled-together tools Drift had at home. For Ratchet. 

Well, if it means that much to him, it can stay. It’s not like it’s hurting anything, probably make his clinic fit in better. Primus knows it could do with that.

“Thanks,” he says, gruff. “Now get in here. Got some things for that idiot friend of yours.”

Inside the clinic the air wafts blissfully cool over Ratchet’s plating. It’s just started to warm outside during the days, which means down here it’s even warmer and humid to boot. Good thing this building was built to keep in the cool. Not so great during the colder months, but lovely now that Ratchet’s vents have to work harder when he’s lugging his bags up and down levels.

Drift moves smoothly into the opening tasks, Ratchet heading back to sort his supplies. They’ve almost got a rhythm now, the two of them. he carefully separates out the smaller sack he’s designated for Gasket and set it next to the energon dispenser. 

“When you’re done up there,” Ratchet call over his shoulder, “this bag’s by the tap’s the one for Gasket. Managed to get ahold of of a good recovery blend, stronger than the stuff I stock here. Threw in some solid gels too, in case that goes down easier. He might still have a bad line of code lurking around making his tank queasy.”

Drift pushes through the curtains at that, mouth crumpled.

“I thought you fixed that,” he says, hand clenching on the edge of the divider. 

“I did,” Ratchet says. “But sometimes, when mecha wait until the last minute with a virus like that the processor does funny things. Just make sure he’s getting, and keeping down, as much fuel as he can tolerate.” 

If they’ve access to enough fuel anyway. They’re both speedsters, both have engines that probably burn through fuel fast as they can get it down. Ratchet’ll keep sending whatever he can spare, but with his creds dwindling by the day… he needs to suck it up and wade back into the mess that is Senate funding grants. Ugh. There has to be a better long-term option, that doesn't really on the grace of an institute that doesn't have any.

“Right,” Drift says, the corner of his mouth quirking down. 

“I also threw in a set of meds for rust infections,” Ratchet says. “Looks like there might’ve been a nasty one thinking about setting in to that arm of his. There’s a topical paste that should help fight some of it, and if it looks like it’s getting worse there’s something you can add to his energon that’ll get in his circulation. C’mon over here and eat, daylight’s burning.”

He grabs a couple cubes off the wash rack and flips the tap to open. 

Drift stops his loitering around the divider and drifts over to the dispenser. 

“How does that work?” he says. 

“Good question, thinking like a medic,” Ratchet says. “Once those infections breach the plating level they’ll eat at any energon lines like they’re candy and once they get in _those_ it goes from bad to situation all fragged up real quick. Remind me after clinic today to show you how to identify the signs because I don’t care how much he doesn’t like me, you need to get him in here.”

Drift pauses, cube halfway to his mouth. 

“It’s not _you_ ,” he says. “I told you it’s not you, it’s just…” 

He stares off to the side, mouth compressing. 

“It’s fine, kid,” Ratchet says. “I get it. I’m just saying, if it looks like it’s going systemic, I need to know.”

Drift nods sharply and drinks his cube, still swallowing it down like he’s being timed. Someday Ratchet’ll get him to slow down and stop drinking like someone’s going to snatch it away. his field pulls in tight again and slag, that’s not what Ratchet meant to do. 

“Tell me about him,” Ratchet says, sipping his own cube at a much more leisurely rate. 

“Gasket?” Drift says. “He’s…”

He toys his his cube, spinning in round in his hand smooth as if it isn’t made entirely of angles.

“He paints,” he says. “Long as I’ve known him. Paint’s good, too. He’s been down here a lot longer than me.”

“He found you, then?” Ratchet says. 

“Hah,” Drit says, with an amused little ripple of plating. “Found me. Yeah. I wasn’t doing so good. He picked me up, got me straight. Then he just… stuck around.”

Ratchet smiles softly. Almost sounds like Orion and him.

“Sounds like a good friend,” he says. 

Drift smiles back at that, this tiny, soft secret of a smile. It does things to Ratchet’s spark, seeing him smile like that. 

“Yeah,” Drift says. “He… yeah.”

He gives the cube a last twirl and slides it neatly into place on the wash rack. Good with his hands, that mech is. Ratchet’s got to let him take a shot with some of the medical instruments. Drift might take well to being a surgery tech, or a biomed repair tech with hands like that. Ratchet’s still got friends at his school, and Orion would be be able to help with the tedious trudge that is filing function exemption paperwork. Orion’s good with wading through that bureaucratic shuttleslag.

Ratchet sets his empty cube with much less flair next to Drift’s. Before he can suggest going up front, there’s a clatter and a thump at the front door. Drift’s plating clamps, and he spins on one foot, hands coming up as he shifts half in front of Ratchet. He puts a hand on Drift’s arm to stay him, because there’s something all too familiar about that particular tread. 

“Ratch’!’ Orion’s voice comes through the curtain, promptly followed by the rest of him. Yep. Thought so. Orion’s audial fins quiver madly, and he’s practically bouncing on his stabilizers. 

“Orion,” Ratchet says. “Come on in, it’s open.”

Orion looks mildly chastised for all of two clicks. 

“You’ve got to come with me,” he says, optics almost flaring with with his excitement. “Megatronus is giving a _live speech_ down here, on Red Plaza.”

That explains it. 

“Megatronus, hmm,” Ratchet says. “What are we standing around here for then.”

“Ra- _tch,_ ” Orion says. “He doesn’t advertise it usually, they’d come and shut him down if he did, but he told me and I said I’d come. He brilliant when he speaks, I’ve heard the recordings, I have to hear it in person.” 

“You don’t want to wait for your date?” Ratchet says. “And it was going to be so romantic too.”

Orion ignores him primly. 

“You should come with me,” he says. “I know it’s normally your clinic hours, but you haven’t taken a cycle off in far too long and this is important, Megatronus’ work is _important_ and I’d very much like you to come.”

He belatedly seems to realize there’s another mech in the room and turns the full force of all that energy on Drift.

“Drift!” he says, pulsing out his field in greeting. “Goodness, I’m sorry for ignoring you like that. It’s lovely to see you again, you should come too!” 

Drift eyes him, still half in front Ratchet. He does cautiously return the greeting this time. Progress. 

“I…” he says. “Hello.”

Ratchet rolls his optics. 

“Don’t let him guilt you with those big optics of his,” he says. Orion of course turns those pleading optics on him instead, and reaches around Drift to clasp Ratchet’s hand. 

“You don’t _have_ to come, if you don’t want to,” he says. “But I very much want you with me. 

Frag. As if Ratchet can say no to that. 

“Fine,” he says. “If only to take snaps of you making bedroom optics at him for blackmail purposes.”

“I’m not going to make _bedroom optics_ at him,” Orion says, looking scandalized. Hah, he should try that on someone who didn’t share a hab with him once. “And also you say that like you don’t have a file of blackmail on me already.”

True. Although using blackmail material would involve Orion having shame.

“Sure you won’t,” Ratchet says. “Drift, you’re welcome to come with us if you feel like listening to some speechifying today, but you’re also welcome to take a couple cubes and enjoy the free time off if you’d rather.”

Drift’s optics dart back and forth between the two of them. 

“I’ve heard of Megatronus,” he says. He chews at his lip, and then adds quietly, “I’d like to. If you’re going Ratchet.” 

So Megatronus really has been making waves down here. Drift’s never mentioned an interest in revolutionists, but they’ve never talked politics. Maybe that friend of his has been talking about Megatronus. He hadn't seemed like the type to get caught up in revolutions, but it's not like Ratchet really know him.

“Well then,” Ratchet says. “Let me type up a sign for the front and we’ll go.” 

Orion let out an altogether undignified squeal of his engine and pulls Ratchet into a hug. Drift plasters himself back against the counter, plating flattening, but Ratchet just dims his optics and savors the warm weight of Orion against him. 

“Thank you,” Orion says, muffled against the side of Ratchet’s head. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ratchet says, grumbling, and gives him a squeeze. “I don’t suppose you remembered to eat before floating down here on cloud nine?”

Orion’s field goes guilty. 

“Right, of course you didn’t,” Ratchet says. “Get yourself a cube, and let’s go see this mech of yours.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dear Primus,” Orion says, a little blankly. “Megatronus announced this less than a joor ago.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 30,000 words and still going i don't even know with this fic anymore i really don't. Also 80% of Megatron's speech is not mine, and is stitched together from Megatron Origin and the published Towards Peace bits. hope y'all enjoy! :)

“Dear Primus,” Orion says, a little blankly. “Megatronus announced this less than a joor ago.” 

Red Plaza buzzes with mecha and movement, crammed from edge to edge with mostly lower caste frame types – construction builds, energon miners, transportation frames, dockworkers, waste disposal and such. The kind of mecha that actually do the work of making their planet run. 

“Careful, Orion,” Ratchet says from behind his shoulder. “Pretty sure I heard this mech say once that’s blasphemy, using our creator’s name in vain. Wouldn’t want Primus to strike you down just when you’re about to meet your… _friend_.” 

Orion scowls, field spiking. 

“Oh come off,” he says. “I _told_ you it’s not like that.” 

Ratchets optical ridges shoot up. Huh. Guess that’s a bit more of a tender spot than Ratchet realized if Orion’s this on edge. His little crush must be even bigger than Ratchet thought. He’s _definitely_ not getting out of a conversation about this later. Of course Orion, being Orion, immediately crumples. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap like that,” he says. 

“Ow,” Ratchet says, clutching his chest. “My poor delicate spark, you’ve wounded it.” 

He slumps exaggeratedly against Orion’s side and shakes his head sorrowfully. 

“I don’t know how I’ll get over it, I really don’t.” 

It works. Orion stops broadcasting guilt all over the place and says, “Right delicate. Practically a crystal flower of tender feelings.”

“Delicate fragging flower, that’s me,” Ratchet says. Off to the side, Drift snorts. 

“Oh?” Ratchet stops draping himself over Orion and turns to Drift. “Got something to say about my spark?” 

“I wouldn’t want to hurt your tender feelings,” Drift says blandly. 

“Precisely,” Ratchet says, pushing warm amusement into his field. “See, Orion? _Drift_ cares about my emotional well-being.”

Orion rolls his optics, and lets out a put-upon vent when Ratchet elbows him in retaliation. 

“We should get to the front,” he says. “I want to say hello before things get started.”

Someone elbows his way past their little huddle, sending Drift bumping into Ratchet in chain reaction. People are getting bolder now, pushing their way into the evre more packed mass of mecha.

“And before they go to the Pits?” Ratchet says. Orion’s mouth twists, but he doesn’t disagree. They shove their way around the edge of the plaza, skirting the worst of the crowd.Ratchet keeps an optic out, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone in particular grandstanding around like a stubborn-headed revolutionary dissident. Only a few kliks later though Orion lets out an entirely undignified engine squeal and tugs at Ratchet’s arm. 

“That’s him, there!” he says. “In the grey, with the red scroll tattooing on his chest. Come on, come _on.”_

A few unrelenting elbows gets the three of them past the last few mecha in their way, Orion’s greater bulk doing more than Ratchet’s for all of his medic-modded density while Drift weaves behind them like a shadow.

“Megatronus!” Orion says, and when the mech he’s yelling at doesn’t look up from his datapad Orion cups his hand around his mouth and practically booms, “ _Megatronus!”_

Quite a vocalizer on him, when he uses it. Not that there's much call for it at the archives. The mecha around him magically part and Megatronus turns, optics lighting up when he sees them.

“Orion,” he says, and reaches out to clasp their forearms together. “You made it.” 

“Of course,” Orion says and is he _blushing_? Oh, he’s _so_ going to hear about this later. Ratchet can’t wait. 

“It’s fortuitous you were able to make it with such short notice,” Megatronus says. “But I’m sure you understand the realities of our situation.” 

Orion’s mouth quirks down. 

“Unfortunately,” he says. “I read the city’s most recent executive order. They’ve designated you the leader of a _terrorist_ organization now.” 

Ratchet twitches. They’ve done _what_ now? He really should have payed more attention to Orion’s ramblings. 

“I’ve seen it,” Megatronus says, face hardening. “Notwithstanding the fact that in order to be a leader of a terrorist organization there does, in fact, have to be such an organization in existence. In light of that I’ve decided– well. There will be time for that later. Tell me, who are your friends?”

“Oh, right,” Orion says, waving Ratchet and Drift forward. “This is my amica, Ratchet, the one I told you runs the free clinic in Diurna sector?” 

“You’ve mentioned,” Megatronus says, and taps a fist to his chest. It’s an old-fashioned military sort of gesture, and isn’t that interesting. Orion hadn’t mentioned him being former military, although eying him now there’s clear evidence of the modifications that’ve been made to what looks like some sort of deep miner type frame – additional armor, contact points for weapons. The control in his field, the way it simmers with bridled threat and power. Not that it all would necessarily mean military. Plenty of mecha turned arena gladiators go for the same sorts of upgrades when they try to strike it big. 

“Pleasure,” Ratchet says. “Nice to finally meet the mech Orion’s been waxing on about for the better part of two decacycles.” 

“ _Ratchet,_ ” Orion says. 

“He did make an impression,” Megatronus says. “I can’t say the same of most of the middle-caste mecha that have reached out to me regarding my polemics.” 

Orion goes rather blue. Honestly the mech has no poker face. It’s a good thing he wasn’t sparked for the political sector. He’d probably have been forced to install some sort of mask, visor, or both before he’d worked there five breems. 

“Orion does tend to do that,” Ratchet says. He pointedly looks Megatronus up and down. “So you’re the dangerous revolutionary that has the Council threatening violent retaliation, huh? Don’t know if I see it.”

“ _Ratch_ -et,” Orion says. 

“Hmm,” Megatronus says, gives them a grin that’s all fangs. “Keep looking.” 

“Oh, I will,” Ratchet says. 

“ _Anyway,_ ” Orion says. “This is Ratchet’s friend Drift, they work at the clinic together.”

The attention suddenly on him, Drift’s plating fluffs and slicks down looking rather like he’d prefer to be anywhere but here.

“Drift,” Megatronus says, tapping fist to chest again in that same genteel greeting. “Welcome. I don’t think I’ve seen you at one of these gatherings before.”

Drift shakes his head. 

“Haven’t been to one,” he says. “But I’ve heard about you.”

“Oh?” Megatronus says drily. “Only the most complimentary things I’m sure.”

“No, it was, it’s…” Drift says, and hesitates, shifting from one pede to the other. “They have some of the pamphlets you’ve done, plastered on the walls around my street. Lotta mecha think you’ve got bearings, saying what you do. Not letting the Council shut you up.”

Ratchet stares at Drift. Huh. He hadn’t realized. There haven’t been any pamphlets around the area of the clinic, but then most mecha have skirted it since a top-sider set up shop there unless they practically have a limb falling off. Too much distrust, of the medical system, of the system itself, to trust someone like Ratchet. Especially one offering care without an obvious catch. Drift’s presence has done some to alleviate that, but still. It's a problem nothing but time and experience will fix. 

“I’m glad to see the pamphlets haven’t all been burned,” Megatronus says. “This movement is long overdue.”

Another war-build, this one with a red visor, ghosts up behind Megatronus and taps him lightly on the shoulder. Megatronus stiffens, and nods.

“That’s my cue,” he says. “Can’t forget we’re on borrowed time today.”

“The Enforcers,” Orion says, face hardening. “Someone will have alerted them by now.” 

“Someone inevitably does. The oppressed participating in their own oppression,” Megatronus says. “I’d better get started then. I _do_ have better things to do tonight than die mysteriously in Council custody. Orion, Ratchet, Drift,” he tilts is head and strides over to the podium, all grace and coiled power. 

Ridiculous how a mech that massive can move like that. There’s definitely something… off about his build. Ratchet knows the construction standards and forged frame types on Cybertron inside and out and while there’s certainly benign explanations for some of the oddities of Megatronus’ frame, somehow he has a rather sinking feeling that that the explanation behind Megatronus’ origins isn’t one.

Megatronus plants a heavy pede on the makeshift stack of slabs serving as a stage and levers himself up. He turns, and to a one the crowd quiets, moving to face him with rapt attention. The fact he already commands this sort of power, this level of respect… maybe Ratchet’s been more out of the loop than he’d realized. 

Megatronus doesn’t speak immediately, just stands there for a long pause gaze sweeping across the crowd. Something in him shifts as he does, more than his field can explain, expanding, compelling, a presence that pulls in everyone around him light to a black hole. Then he speaks. 

"I want to ask each of you a question – why are you here? You come from the mines, the construction yards, the arenas, barracks, and streets. You come up from the dark depths of the city, the forgotten places where our government has consigned us to toil our lives away in silence.” 

His voice rumbles deep with banked power and control and Ratchet stills. 

“Make no mistake,” Megatronus says, “your life is mapped out in front of you, as clear as the grooves in your transformation cog. Whether you choose to recognize this system for what it is or not changes nothing – it is a prison. Worse than that, it is a prison full of willing prisoners within our own own bodies.”

Primus. Orion was right. In front of the crowd like this, Megatronus is a force of nature, unmoving and inevitable as the tides and wind, and sharply, viciously eloquent. He bends his words and the crowds to him like electric charges in polarity.  Behind Ratchet, Drift leans forward, close enough the edges of their fields tangle; Drift’s with some strange, churning unease. Ratchet flares his own lightly in question, glances back but Drift’s optics are fixed unwavering on Megatronus. 

“In denying us the ability to reject our alt modes, in preventing us from pursuing a path of our own choosing, both the Senate and the Council say the are acting in our best interests. Constraining us in our best interests,” Megatronus says. “But we are constrained by a system that serves only itself, that consigns us to misery and death if we dare to challenge it.”

He slashes his hand down, optics burning with a light like stoked coals. 

“We are the forgotten, trying to forget,” he says. “But we are only the forgotten until we stand together, united shoulder to shoulder in our own cause. Until we make them _unable to forget.”_

He spreads his hands, fists clenched, lets his words hang in the air. The last of the scattered clattering and muttering of side conversations die. Silence blankets the plaza heavy and smothering.

“There are three things you should demand to know of any powerful institution purporting to rule you. Question one,” he holds up a digit, “in whose interests do you exercise your power? Question two, to whom are you accountable? And question three,” Megatronus leans forward, field sparking bright enough Ratchet can almost see it, “ _how can we get rid of you_?”

His words reverberate through the plaza, striking the crowd like a hammer on steel. Someone hollers a raucous affirmation, pumping her first in the air and around her the rest begin to echo it. Some yelling, some whistling, one knot in the far corner starting up a chant that sounds like _rise up, rise up._

Orion grabs Ratchet’s hand tight in his own, squeezes it, his gaze bouncing between the joyful chaos of the crowd and the triumphant slash of Megatronus’ mouth. Ratchet looks back, then stops. Looks again. 

“Orion,” he hisses, jerking at his hand. “Orion, _Enforcers._ ”

Orion stiffens, straightening up and scanning the edges of the crowd. They must have waited until now, where their presence would go less noticed in the excitement but their paint is unmistakable.

“Slag,” Orion mutters. Drift’s noticed too now and he turns to face the back, planting his weight like he's trying to block Ratchet’s frame, bristling like he’s just daring anyone to try and get through him. Ridiculous mech. He’s the lightest frame type out of all three of them.

The rowdy joy of the crowd shifts as one by one they notice too, the slow, overly casual approach of the mecha emblazoned with Council marks. The voices turn ugly, fearful, in a moment those around the edges disappearing like ghosts into alleys and dark corners.  Around the plaza boundaries more and more mecha in Enforcer paint push their way through and worse, they’re not alone. There’s others with them, in paint black as the Pits with death-grey visors and masks. The kind of mecha called in to handle the kind of situations where later official will deny their presence stone-faced.  Ratchet leans sideways, reaches across to tap on Orion’s arm. He jerks his head in the direction of the black mecha and Orion hisses. 

On the stage Megatronus revs his engine and raises a hand to quiet the crowd, seemingly unmoved by the growing unrest. 

“The Council,” he says, pauses until the worst of the noise dies, “the Council refuses to answer our questions. Refuses to answer to its people and I say enough. Reject your work. Reject your alt mode. Resist the system and your betters for _you have none._ ”

He steps back, toward the edge of the platform. 

“We are all equal. And we all have a right to decide how we live our lives.”

His gaze holds the crowd, meets their optics for a last, long moment before he pivots and jumps to the ground. Somehow between one vent and the next he vanishes like smoke into the chaos and that’s it. It’s time to get themselves out of here. 

As Megatronus disappears, the crowd… scatters wouldn’t be the right word. There’s too many of them, packed in too tightly for that. But every last one makes a damn good attempt. 

Around them Enforcers multiply like turborats, stun guns in hand and– do they have _acid rifles_? Of course they do. Power-hungry glitches. It’s not enough to shut down a peaceful gathering, they have to threaten mecha’s sparks while they do it. Someone’s going to end up hurt, Ratchet knows it and on autopilot he gropes in his subspace for his medbag, bring elbows up to shield himself as mecha push through and around them.

“Ratchet,” Orion says. “We have to go. Now.”

“But–“ Ratchet hesitates, one hand around the strap of his bag.

“I know, I _know_ ,” Orion says. “But you’re not going to do these mecha any good if you get trampled or shot up and that’s exactly what’s going to happen if we try and stay.”

“Or someone else will get trampled or shot up in the chaos,” Ratchet says. “Do those Enforcers _look_ like they’re gonna be handing out bandages and soft blankets afterward?” 

“He’s right,” Drift says, pressing closer as the shoving worsens, their frames grouped together buffeting against the panicking mecha. “We need to go _now.”_

“We’ll wait at the clinic, alright?” Orion says, and wraps an arm half around Ratchet’s shoulder, pulling him towards the side street behind them.

“But–“ Ratchet tries again, weaker, except Drift reaches out to clutch at the arm sill half buried in his subspace. 

“We live here, they know how to disappear,” he says. “Orion’s right, you gotta go, Ratchet.”

His faceplates are tense with worry, worry for _Ratchet_ and slag it. He can’t argue with that face. 

“Fine,” Ratchet says and lets go of his medbag. “Let’s go.”

Drift nods sharply, some of his tension easing and Ratchet lets Orion pull him through the crowd. Except Drift isn't following them. Ratchet digs his heels in and stops. 

“You coming with us?” he says.

Drift shakes his head, says “Go, I know my own way back.” 

Ratchet hesitates. It’s not like Drift doesn’t know these streets better than Ratchet ever will but…

“If you’re sure,” he says. He pulls out of Orion’s grip long enough to stretch out an arm and give Drift’s shoulder a last squeeze and a little shake. “Be safe, alright?” 

Drift’s face scrunches, some unidentifiable emotion flickering across it. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I got this, go on.” 

He pulls away and Ratchet lets him.He’s gone like wind, slipping seamlessly into the crowd. 

“This way,” Orion says, and grabs Ratchet’s hand, pulling them onto a street. He seems to know exactly where he’s going, leading them through a frankly bewildering maze of smaller connecting alleys back towards the direction of Ratchet’s clinic. It takes longer back than it seemed to get to the plaza, but eventually one of the streets dumps them out on the side of the clinic.

“You want to come in for bit, until things calm down?” Ratchet says, punching in the code for the door. Less particular this time since it’s already had to cooperate once this cycle. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they have someone watching the trams.”

Orion’s mouth thins.

“At least for a joor or so,” he says. 

“You didn’t scuff anything up during all that, did you?” Ratchet says, waving Orion on in ahead of him. He flips the light switch by the entrance, and double checks that the door locks behind them.

“A few scrapes, nothing my self-repair won’t handle by morning,” Orion says. 

“Hmph,” Ratchet says. “Better use a rust wash on them just in case.”

“Yes, mentor,” Orion says, lips twisting in amusement. 

“Don’t _yes mentor_ me, smartaft,” Ratchet says. “I don’t suppose you have one at home, do you. Of course you don’t.Gimme a klik and I’ll grab one to send back with you.”

Orion follows him into the back and perches on one of the berths. There’s extra bottles of rust wash stored under the sink, and Ratchet crouches to fish one out of the neat rows of yellow and orange the line the shelf. One of the gentler ones should be good enough, and it won’t sting as badly which means the less he has to hear about it later. Orion might pretend he’s better than all that but he can sulk like a new-build with the best of them.

“Use it at least tonight and tomorrow, alright?” Ratchet says. “Who knows what’s come in contact with those wounds, I don’t care how superficial they are.”

“Yes, Ratchet,” Orion says mildly. 

“I don’t want to see you back here in three days whining to me about an infection or Primus know what else,” Ratchet says.

“Yes, Ratchet,” Orion says. “And again with the blasphemy.” 

He shakes his head in mock disappointment.

“I’ll show _you_ blasphemy,” Ratchet says. 

“I don't know, I feel like you've already showed it enough times to get the picture,” Orion says. Ratchet straightens up and flourishes the bottle at him threateningly.

"Yes, Ratchet," Orion says, lifting his hands in surrender. "Tonight and tomorrow, I got it.”

“Hrmph,” Ratchet says. That scatterbrain better not forget or Ratchet will have _words._ You think he’d learn after all the nicks and bruises he acquired by accidentally tripping over things or walking into them or walking into _people_ because he’d decided it was just the greatest idea to read something in his HUD while meandering around, like an _idiot,_ but no. He just had to show up and give Ratchet the sad optics after inevitably one of his ‘just a scuffs’ needed actual treatment. Orion’s lucky he ended up with a doctor for an amica, he really is. 

Ratchet will set reminder to nag him about the wash, just in case. 

“So,” Orion says. “Do you want to open the clinic in case someone comes by? Hopefully none of the Enforcers will think to check here.”

Fair question. Ratchet had left the door locked, and hadn’t flipped the sign. 

“I should,” he says, plodding back up to the front to fix that. Technically it’s only just about the time he’d be closing the clinic anyway, and it’s not like he has anywhere he has to be tonight. “Don’t think I’m not roping you into helping with anyone who does show up.” 

“Of course,” Orion says. “Whatever I can do.”

Ratchet switches his sign to open, unlocks the door. He peers through the perpetual grime that coats the exterior window no matter how often he washes it down, but there’s not a spark in sight. Hopefully that doesn’t mean no one who needs care wasn’t able to get away. 

He should have stayed. Should have done _something_. Next time he’ll come prepared, make sure he’s ready because it’s only going to be worse next time. The Council is only escalating, and with the ‘terrorist’ label slapped on Megatronus now the city will be able to pull in more mecha, _worse_ mecha. And with the rally well-advertised, they’ll have time to plan.

He pushes back through the divider. Orion’s still perched on the berth like some sort of awkward bird, legs pulled up and arms wrapped loosely around them.

“I hope…” Orion says. “I hope everyone got away alright.”

“Took the words right outta my processor,” Ratchet says, exventing. The extra chairs are stacked against the wall and since _he_ doesn’t feel like hanging out on a berth he lifts one off the heap, slumping down in it gracelessly.

“It was worth it though,” Orion says. “To see Megatronus speak live.”

“How did you recognize him?” Ratchet says. “I thought you hadn’t met up yet.”

“We haven’t,” Orion says. “But we, ah, we’ve been chatting through vid.”

Ratchet raises an optical ridge. 

“Uh huh,” he says.

“It was easier!” Orion says. “The kind of pad he was able to get, it takes him forever to type everything out.”

“Uh _huh,”_ Ratchet says. 

“And, um,” Orion says a corner of mouth quirking up like he just can't help himself, “he felt some of his criticisms of my arguments were better delivered in the ‘appropriately scathing tone they deserve.’”

Oh the mech’s got it _bad._

“Hah,” Ratchet says. “Did he now. Good to see someone’s keeping you on your pede-tips.”

“Frag, Ratch’, he really does,” Orion says. “Even when I think I’ve read all this is to know about something, he finds an angle I haven’t thought of. The way his mind works, it just–“

He folds his arms around his knees, drops his chin onto them. 

“The way he sees the world,” he says. “I want to give it to him just to see what he’d _do_ with it.”

He stares at the floor, optics hazed over with some memory playing in his head. The look on his face… it’s been a damn long time since Ratchet’s seen him look like that. Since Ratchet’s seen him this lit up inside. 

Orion shakes himself, and turns his gaze back up.

“But I’m rambling on again, aren’t I,” he says. “I want to hear what _you_ thought about Megatronus. Really, of who he is, his cause, what he’s doing.” 

Ratchet leans back in his chair, stares past Orion to the soft glow of the sodium lights at the front of the clinic. What _does_ he think of Megatronus? 

“I think he’s dangerous,” Ratchet says. “I think he’s right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are <3 and fuel.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone is banging on Ratchet’s door. An enthusiastic thud thud thud of metal hitting stone with way too much enthusiasm way too fragging early.

Someone is banging on Ratchet’s door. An enthusiastic _thud thud thud_ of metal hitting stone with way too much enthusiasm way too fragging early. Ratchet determinedly keeps his optics offline, dims his audio input. His alarm hasn’t gone off, therefore it’s not time for him to be online and whatever chipper morning person out there making all that racket can just _go away._

All that racket does not go away. It keeps activating his automatic boot up sequence over and over until he finally gives up, lets it run, not waiting until it’s finished to push himself upright and nearly fall flat on his face when there’s less berth than he’s expecting. 

That’s right. He isn’t home in his nice wide comfortable berth. He slept at the clinic last night. By the time Orion had wandered back to the tram it’d been so late it hadn’t seemed worth the trip, not when he’d be turning right around to come back in a few joors.

He straightens, bracing his hands on his hips and arching his back until the knots and kinks stretch out. His processor chugs along like it’s swimming through energon syrup, still trying and failing to block out the din at the door. Right. He needs to put an end to that, with force if necessary, and then get some brew in his system so he feels less like dropping right back offline.

The knocking abruptly stops. Not a klik later though it’s replaced but some some of scratching, and Ratchet ducks through the divider towards whoever is making an attempt to break through his windows. He throws the door open, his vocalizer already queued up with a string of his most creative curses only to cancel the sequence before the first one can leave his mouth.

“Good morning, Drift,” Ratchet says.

Drift stares back at him. With at knife. At the window seal.

“You recharged well I trust,” Ratchet says. “I, too, like to start the morning right with a little breaking and entering. Get the day off on the right foot.”

“Ratchet,” Drift says. He looks entirely like he’s _attempting_ to appear remorseful, and failing utterly. “Was worried. You weren’t here and weren’t answering the door.” 

“So you decided the next logical step was to break my window,” Ratchet says, crossing his arms.

Drift moves the knife away from the window, slipping it into his subspace.

“You could’ve been hurt,” he says. 

“As you can see I’m perfectly fine,” Ratchet says. “I’d be more fine if you stopped trying to vandalize my clinic and came inside so we can breakfast like civilized mecha.”

It’s entirely too early for this slag. He turns to stomp back into the clinic and stops. Takes a step back. 

Someone has defaced Ratchet’s clinic. Right next to the door, an incomprehensible jumble of symbols is freshly sprayed and dripping a lurid energon blue. The center part looks vaguely like glyphs, if you ran some through a blender and then splashed them on the wall. They’re superimposed over what appears to be two squat rectangles side by side. 

Ratchet glares at it. Whoever decided to exercise their artistic talents on _his clinic_ better have enjoyed it because the whole mess was coming right the hell off as soon as he got his hands on a scrub and some paint remover. 

“What. Is this,” Ratchet says. He turns his head to glare at Drift instead except instead of surprise on Drift’s faceplates, he looks even _more_ unrepentant. “Don’t tell me this is _your_ handiwork.”

“No,” Drift says. “I got Gasket to do it.”

“You… got Gasket to do it,” Ratchet says.

“He’s better with paints,” Drift says. 

Ratchet stops. Pull in a long vent.If you’re into abstract expressionism, sure. Gasket’s a fragging genius. 

“And why,” Ratchet says, “did you feel the need to ask Gasket to deface my clinic.”

“He didn’t _deface_ it,” Drift says. “It’s…” he scowls at the wall up like he’s hoping he can intimidate it into materializing the words he wants, “it’s a sign.”

“A sign,” Ratchet says. “Because there definitely isn’t a perfectly good sign already.”

“That the mecha down here will trust,” Drift says. He squares off, tone twisting into frustration. “You know most people aren’t just gonna walk right into some sketchy old building that says ‘free clinic’ right? Unless they’re leaking out or high, you know what it looks like.”

Unfortunately, Ratchet _does_ know. With relinquishment clinics popping up like bad credits, sketchy frame mod shops on every other street, and Primus knows what else masquerading as medical facilities and doing Primus knows what to mecha no one would miss… 

Yeah. He knows. 

“This’ll help,” Drift says. “It’s marks only someone down here would know, so they don’t think you’re gonna scrap ‘em for parts or whatever.”

“Fine,” Ratchet says. “What, exactly does it say then?” 

“That you’re a doctor, a real one,” Drift says. “And one of the good ones. I dunno how to explain it.”

“Break it down,” Ratchet says. 

Drift blows out a frustrated vent and stomps closer. 

“This,” he traces the outline of the two rectangle bits, “is the part that means doctor. Not on it’s own, it can mean other things, but here it does.” 

“The sign saying medical clinic probably helps fill in the gaps,” Ratchet says.

“Well, yeah, but– the way it’s done means the rest of it’s about you. Not me, or whoever else works here, or about someone who’s protecting you,” Drift says.

“Alright, makes sense,” Ratchet says. “And the… are those glyphs?” 

“They’re our glyphs,” Drift says. “More like symbols? They don’t just mean one word.”

Interesting. Ratchet tries to pick out remnants of familiar lettering in the jumble but they’re all overlapping and interconnected in some pattern he can’t quite parse. The biggest bit in the middle looks more self-contained, so he stabs a finger at it.

“What about that one?” he says. 

“Um,” Drift says. “That one's for… it means trust.” 

He determinedly stares at the symbol and not at Ratchet. “That someone from down here’s been treated by you and you did right by them."

Oh. _Oh._ Ratchet’s spark goes weird in throbbing in that way only Drift seems to cause, spinning up until his chest feels strangely tight. Drift’s faceplates tinge slightly blue, nasal ridge scrunching up and that makes Ratchet’s spark whirl even faster and right. Energon. Clinic. 

“Better get you some fuel before we get mobbed with people then,” Ratchet says. “C’mon kid, get inside.”

Primus be damned. Drift was right. Before they’ve been open two joors the waiting room runs out of chairs for mecha to sit on for the first time since Ratchet opened his doors, until they’re crowding in corners and loitering around the door. He hardly even sees Drift after they get going, only long enough to be handed off patient screeners and initial vital sets so he can pull back the next one. And for once it’s not mostly issues on the verge of life-threatening – peripheral rust infections, engine knock, fluid top-ups and and changes, small plating cracks and sticking joints. One after the other, until Ratchet barely has time to think.

He manages to gulp down a cube of energon halfway through the day, shoves one into Drift’s hand too the next time he rushes up front. The whole thing takes Ratchet back to his first duty station, fresh out of medic school and dealing with a gaggle of other barely trained new recruits and working from the time he rolled out of his rack until he practically fell asleep over his evening energon. It’s almost enough to make a mech nostalgic. 

By the time he drags himself up front nearly two joors after their normal closing time, it takes his overworked processor a moment to realize the waiting room is finally empty. Drift is locking the front door, faceplates so pale he looks like he’s about to pass out. He turns, gives Ratchet a tired little half-grin. 

“Good job, kid,” Ratchet says, grinning back. He’s so exhausted his _struts_ ache. His tank clocks in at barely a quarter tank, and if he’s that depleted he can’t imagine what Drift’s at. 

“C’mon, let’s get some fuel in you before you collapse.”

“Won’t,” Drift says, but follow Ratchet obediently into the back and heaves himself up to sit cross-legged on one of the medical berths. What is it with mecha and wanting to use the med berths as chairs?

Ratchet starts on automatic to fill two cubes from the dispenser, and stops. Seems like they need something a little stronger and a touch more celebratory this evening. There’s still a few cubes of high-grade somewhere in his subspace, he’s fairly sure, and there’s definitely still a few unopened packets of the additives Orion got him that Drift hasn’t tried yet. There’s even – Ratchet fishes deeper in his subspace and _there_ – a couple mini-bottles of souvenir engex from some event or another. Not thebest quality, Ratchet doesn’t get invited to those kind of events, but plenty good enough to toast a successful day to for sure. 

“Hey, Drift,” he says, setting the varies bottles and cubes on the counter. “You remember where I stuck the additives?”

Drift’s audials perk forward with an excited twitch. 

“Yup,” he says and levers himself off the berth in a ridiculously graceful motion and moseys over to browse through the four remaining packets. He picks each one up, brow ridge furrowing as he reads the labels.

Oh right. He probably isn’t familiar enough with additives to know what they taste like.

“Any particular flavor you’re feeling in the mood for?” Ratchet says. “If you didn’t like the magnesium you’re probably not going to like the zinc either. It’s got more tang to it, but it’s still pretty bitter.”

The disgusted face that Drift makes at that is hilarious. 

“Right, so not that,” Ratchet says, turning to hide his grin as he snaps the tabs off the seal of the high-grade. “You’d probably like the chrome all right, it’s not as sweet as copper but it’s a lot smoother on the glossa.”

He hands Drift his cube. 

“The silver’s pretty acidic, more of an acquired taste. I acquired it from Flat– from a friend of mine that couldn’t get enough of the stuff and shoved enough cubes of it at me until I learned to like it in self-defense.”

Drift picks up the last packet. 

“And the gold?” he says.

Ratchet rolls his optics. 

“They always put gold in the sample selections,” he says. “Mostly because it’s cheap. Honestly, it’s really there to add texture, it comes in little crunchy bits instead of flakes but it doesn’t taste like much of anything at all.”

Drift stares down at the packets for a last long moment and picks up the chrome. Hah. Called it. Ratchet plucks out the silver packet for himself, tears it open and dumps it in his cube. He stirs it in with one digit until it’s more or less mixed and takes a sip, savoring the biting aftertaste. 

“You can throw more than one in too, if you want,” Ratchet says. “See how you like the blend. Or just add the gold on top.”

It only takes a beat for Drift to decide. He shakes the last of the chrome into his cube and rips open the packet of gold and dumps it in right after. He makes an aborted little movement like he’s going on automatic to pour the whole thing straight down his intake but hesitates, brings it up slower and takes a sip. His optics dim as soon as the taste hits his glossa and he hums, a quiet little burr of happiness, and it’s so damn _cute_. 

Happy little laps of Drift’s field brush the edges of Ratchet’s like he can’t help himself, and Ratchet quickly takes a slug of his own cube and looks anywhere but at Drift’s blissed-out face. Next time he’s at a real market, he’s definitely picking up more additives. Maybe even some of the over-priced fancy ones. Drift would definitely appreciate them more than Ratchet does.

“Good?” he says. “What do you thinkof the gold in it? Some people are put off by the texture.”

“’S _good_ ,” Drift says. “I like the gold. Like chewing on energon crystals without the taste.”

Ratchet hums. Not a surprise Drift’s chewed on energon crystals before – they’re hard on the denta and even harder for internal systems to break down but it’s still a whole lot of energy packed into a small chunk and cheap to boot, since they haven’t been refined. 

“Wanna sit down to enjoy it?” he says. “No reason to stand here. Don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of being on my pedes for one day.”

Drift shrugs a shoulder in agreement. He perches himself on the med berth again as Ratchet slumps down in his actually-designed-for-sitting chair.

“I’ve got a bit of engex on me too, after you’re done with that,” Ratchet says, waves a hand at the bottles still on the counter. “Who knows how old and not the best stuff, but it’s what I had on me.”

“I dunno, Ratchet,” Drift says. “You know how picky we are down here about our fuel. I just don’t know if my sensitive systems will be able to cope with any but the finest engex served in your classiest crystal bottles.”

Ratchet snorts. Wiseaft. 

“Well, I wouldn’t want to upset your sensitive systems,” he says. “Your tank might just revolt at the mere suggestion of subpar fuel.”

“Fixed me right just to frag me up again,” Drift says, shaking his head. “And you call yourself a doctor.”

“It’s probably old age that did it,” Ratchet says with faux woeful shake of his head. “You know how mecha start falling apart once they creak past the first couple hundred joors, it's just all downhill from there. ” 

“Ri-ight, more than two hundred joor and you're practically an Ancient,” Drift says, smirking over the edge of his glass. Ratchet smirks back and slouches deeper in his chair. It’s been too long since anyone but Orion has bantered with him like this. Not that _Ratchet_ holds back, but to not only take it but volley it back… yeah. it’s good.

He drains the last of his glass and leans forward enough he can grab the engex. 

“Ready for that subpar engex?” Ratchet says, twisting off the tops of a couple of the newest looking ones. 

“Hit me,” Drift says, bending forward over his folded of ridiculously long legs to offer his glass. Ratchet pours the contents of one bottle into his, then empties the other into his own.

“Cheers,” he says. “You wanna do the toast? I’ve been told all of mine are terribly blasphemous.”

Drift clicks his glossa.

“And you a disciple of Adaptus,” he says. He toys with his cube for moment before clinking it to Ratchet’s.

“To life,” he says, “and those who survive it.”

He takes a sip, and adds drily, “Since I like you, I’ll spare you the ones Gasket’s taught me.”

“Now those I’d love to hear,” Ratchet says and takes slug. It burns just right going down, sickly sweet and perfect. 

“So,” he says. “You never did get the chance to tell me what you thought of Orion’s revolutionary friend and his speech there.”

Drift looks down, staring at his glass. He doesn’t say anything long enough Ratchet’s thinking about changing the subject before he finally speaks. 

“Never heard anyone say stuff like that,” he says. 

“About the Senate?” Ratchet says. 

“No– well, yeah,” Drift says. “That too, kinda. People slag on the Senate all the time though.”

“But…?” Ratchet says. 

“More like, the stuff about rejecting your alt mode,” Drift says. “That you can do something different, be something different.”

“It’s definitely not a popular view,” Ratchet says. “What with the Council making it so.”

Drift squeezes his knees and scowls.

“Not popular, ha,” he says. “More like a death sentence.”

Ratchet cycles his optics, sits back in his chair. Not allowed, sure, but a _death_ sentence?

“Like with Gasket,” Drift says, vocalizer ticking up. “You know he was a racer? A slaggin’ good one too, I’m pretty sure. Not like, pro level, but good. Until he decided he wanted to join artisan class instead.”

Ah. 

“Didn’t go over well, I take it,” Ratchet says. 

“He’s stuck in Dead End with one arm painting walls of abandoned building,” Drift says. “So yeah. Didn’t go over well’s about right.”

His optics spark, just a bit around the edges, and his hands clench tight enough non his knees they’re almost starting to dent the metal. What can Ratchet _say_? Sorry? Tough luck? This is why he almost failed the practical portion of his psych courses. 

He opens his mouth, closes it. 

“Whatever, it’s just…” Drift says quickly. “I think Megatronus had it right. It’s fragged up.”

“Yes. It is,” Ratchet says. “It is fragged up. And a lot of people suffer.”

“Yeah,” Drift says. “Yeah.”

They sit in silence, sipping at their engex. Ratchet should probably be finding something to follow that up, but Pits. What can he say to that? He was lucky enough to be forged into a function he fits in like a jack in a port, and even if parts of it haven’t exactly been covellite cake and crystal roses he wouldn’t change it for anything. Always had a roof over his head, his tank never truly dry. Always had a purpose, a future. Lucky.

“You know Megatronus is holding an actual rally in a few cycles,” Ratchet says. “Could come with us again, if you want.”

“I’d– yeah,” Drift says. “I’ll come.”

“In that case, might teach you some triage first,” Ratchet says. “Of course you don’t have to do it if you don’t want, but I’ve got a feeling most mecha won’t stay in one piece to get away like they did last time.”

“They didn’t get away last time,” Drift says. “Not all of them.”

Great. Suppose it’d been too much to hope. He really should have pushed Orion harder to let him stay. 

“But learning triage,” Drift says, looking up at Ratchet. “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now know way too much about what different metals taste like, who knew. 
> 
> kudos and comments are <3 and fuel


End file.
